



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 




UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


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By CHARLOTTE M. YONGE 


TO 27 VANDEWyMEF\ ST 


l/i E WYO^I<; 




leasT^eLihran^ Pocket Edition, Issued Tri-weeklv. Bv Subscription $36 per annum. 

*• - . 3.-Oct.4.1884. 


righted 1884, by George Munro— Entered at the Post Office at New York at second class rates. 







MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


THE SEASIDE LIBEAKY.-POOKET EDITION. 


2 

3 

4 

5 

< 

7 


HO. PRICE. 

1 Yolande. By William Black 20 

Molly Bawn. !^“The Duchess” 20 

The Mill on the Floss. By George Eliot 20 

Under Two Flags. By“Ouida” 20 

Admiral’s Ward. By Mrs. Alexander.. 20 

Portia. By “The Duchess” 20 

File No. 113. By Emile Gaboriau 20 

8 East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry Wood.... 20 

9 Wanda. By “ Ouida ” 20 

10 The Old Curiosity Shop. By Dickens. 20 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman. MissMulock 20 

12 Other People’s Money. By Gaboriau. 20 

13 Eyre’s Acquittal. By Helen B. Mathers 10 

14 Airy Fairy Lilian. The Duchess ” 10 

15 Jane Eyre. By Chafflotte Bront6 20 

16 Phyllis. By “ The DucMss” 20 

17 The Wooing O’t. By Jfft. Alexander.. 15 

18 Shandon Bells. "By Willem Black 20 

19 Her Mother’s Sin. By the Author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

20 Within an Inch of His Lif^ By Emile 

Gaboriau 20 

21 Sunrise. By William Blaclf 20 

22 David Copperfleld. Dickenrf Vol. I.. 20 

22 David Copperfield. Dickens# Vol. H. 20 

23 A Princess of Thule. By William Black 

24 Pickwick Papers. Dickens. Vol. I... 

^ Pickwick Papers. Dicker. Vol. II.. 

25 Mrs. Geoffrey. By “ The Duchess ”... 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Gabqi^au. Vol. I. 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Gaboriau. Vol. II. 

27 Vanity Fair. By William M. Th^jikeray 

28 Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott., . . . 

29 Beauty’s Daughters. “ The Duchess ” 

30 Faith aud Unfaith. By “ The Duchess ” 

31 Middlemarch. By George Eliot 20 

32 The Land Leaguers. Anthony Trollope 20 

33 TheCliqmeofGold. By Emile Gaboriau 10 
84 Daniel Deronda. By George Eliolf^. 30 

35 Lady Audley’s Secret. Miss Brad^on;20 

36 Adam Bede. By George Eliot ,20 

37 Nicliolas Nickleby. By Charles Dickens 30 

38 Tile Widow Lerouge. By Gaboriau. . ^ 

39 In Silk Attire. By William Black 20 

40 The Last Days of Pompeii. - By Sir E. 

Bulwer Lytton 

41 Oliver Twist. By Charles Dickens . . 


15 


42 Romola. By George Eliot 20 


20 

20 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 


43 Tiie Mystery of Orcival. Gaboriau 

44 Maeleod of Dare. By William Black.. 

45 A Little Pilgrim. By Blrs. Oliphant... 

46 Very Hard Cash. By Charles Reade.. 

47 Altiora Peto. By Laurence Oliphant. . 

48 Thicker Than Water. By James Payn. 

49 That Beautiful Wretch. By Black... 

50 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 

By William Black 20 

51 Dora Thorne. By the Author of “ Her 

Mother's Sin ” 20 

52 The New Magdalen. By Wilkie Collins. 10 

53 The Story of Ida. By Francesca 10 

54 A Broken Wedding-Ring. By the Au- 

thor of “Dora Thorne” 20 

65 The Three Guardsmen. By Dumas. ... 20 
56 Phantom Fortune. Miss %raddon.. . . 20 
67 Shirley. By Charlotte Bront6 20 


NO. 


PRICE. 


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70 

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72 

73 


74 

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77 

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79 


20 

15 

20 


58 By the Gate of the Sea. D. C. Murray 

59 Vice VersA. By F. Anstej' 

60 The Last of the Mohicans. Cooper.. 

61 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. Rowson. 

62 The Executor. By Mrs. Alexander.. 

63 The Spy. By J. Fenimore Cooper. . . 

64 A Maiden Fair. By Charles Gibbon . . 

65 Back to the Old Home. By M. C. Hay 10 

66 The Romance of a Poor Young Man. 

By Octave Feuillet 10 

67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Blackmore. . 30 

68 A Queen Amongst Women. By the 

Author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

69 Madolin’s Lover. By the Author of 

“Dora Thome” 20 

White Wings. By William Black 10 

A Struggle for Fame. Mrs. Riddell.. ,20 
Old Myddelton’s Money. By M. C. Hay 20 
Redeemed by Love. By the Author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

Aurora Floyd. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 
Twenty Veal'S After. By Dumas... 20 
Wife in Name Only. By the Author of 

'■ Dora Thorne ” 

A Tale of Two Cities. By Dickens 

Madcap Violet. By William Black... 
Wedded and Parted. By the Author 
of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

80 June. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

81 A Daughter of Heth. By Wm. Black. 20 

82 Sealed Lips. By F. Du Boisgobey. . . 

83 A Strange Story. Bulwer Lytton 

84 Hard Times. By Charles Dickens. .. 

A Sea Queen. By W. Clark Russell.. 

Belinda. By Rhoda Broughton 

Dick Sand ; or, A Captain at Fifteen. 

By Jules Verne 

The Privateersman. Captain Marryat 20 
The Red Eric. By R. M. Ballantyue. 10 
Ernest Maltravers. Bulwer Lytton . . 20 
Barnaby Rudge. By Charles Dickens. 20 
Lord I.,ynne's Choice. By the Author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

Anthony Trolltme’s Autobiography.. 20 
IJttle Dorrit. Bj' Charles Dickens. . . 30 

95 The Fire Brigade. R. M. Ballantyue 10 

96 Erling the Bold. By R. M. Ballantyne 10 
,97 All in a Garden Fair. 'Walter Besant. . 20 

98 A Woman-Hater. By Charles Reade. 15 

99 Barbara s History. A. B. Edwards. . . 20 

100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. By 

Jules Verne ”. 

101 Second Thoughts. Rhoda Broughton 20 

102 The Moonstone. By Wilkie Collins. . . 15 

103 Rose Fleming. By Dora Russell 10 

104 The Coral Pin. By F. Du Boisgobey. 30 

105 A Noble Wife. By John Saunders. . . 

106 Bleak House. By Charles Dickens. . 

107 Dombey and Son. Charles Dickens. 

108 The Cricket oii the Hearth, and Doctor 
^ Marigold. By Charles Dickens. 

109 Little Loo. By W. Clark Russell. . 

110 Under the Red Flag. By Miss Braddon 10 

111 The Little School-Master Mark. By 

J. H. Shorthouse 10 

112 The Waters of Marah. By John Hill 20 


85 

86 
87 


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40 

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10 

20 


[this list is continued on third page of cover.] 


The Armourer’s Prentices. 


By CHARLOTTE M. YONGE. 





'sEP 19 188 










NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

17 TO 27 Vandkwatkr Strkkt. _ 

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4 


THE ARMOURER’S PRENTICES. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE VERDURER’s LODGE. 

“ Give me the poor allottery my fatlier left me by testament, with that I will 
go buy me fortunes.” 

“ Get you with him, you old dog .” — As You Like It. 

TtiE oltlcials of the New Forest have ever since the clays of the 
Contjueror enjoyed some of the pleasantest dwellings that southern 
England can boast. 

The home of the Birkenholt family was not one of the least de- 
lightful. It stood at the foot of a rising ground on which grew a 
grove of magnificent beeches, their large silvery boles rising majes- 
tically like columns into a lofty vaulting of brandies, covered above 
with tender green foliage. Here and there the shade beneath was 
broken by the gilding of a ray of sunshine on a lower twig, or on a 
white trunk, but the floor of the vast arcades was almost entirely of 
the russet brown of the fallen leaves, save where a fern or holly 
bush made a spot of green. At the foot of the .slope lay a 
stretch of pasture ground, some parts covered by “ lady-smocks, all 
silver white,” with the course of the little stream through the midst 
indicated by a perfect golden river of shining king-cups interspersed 
with ferns. Beyond lay tracts of brown heath and brilliant gorse 
and broom, which stretched for mrles and miles along the flats, while 
the dry around was covered with holly brake, and here and there 
woods of oak and beech made a sea of verdure, purpling in the dis- 
tance. 

Cultivation was not attempted, but hardy little ]X)nies, cows, 
goats, sheep, and pigs were feeding, and picking their way about in 
the marshy mead below, and a small garden of pot-herbs, inclosed 
by a strong fence of timber, lay on the sunny side of a spacious 
rambling forest lodge, oulj' one story high, built of solid timber and 
rooted with shingle. It was not without strong pretensions to 
beauty, as well as to picturesqueness, for the posts of the door, the 
architecture of the deep porch, the frames of the latticed windows, 
and the verge boards were all richly carved in grotesque devices. 
Over the door was the royal shield, between a pair of magnificent 
antlers, the spoils of a deer reported to have been slam by King Ed- 
waid IV., as was denoted by the “ glorious sun of York ” carved 
beneath the shield. 

In the background among the trees were ranges of stables and 
kennels, and on the grass plot in front of the windows was a row of 
beehives. A. tame doe lay on the little greensward not far from a 


4 


THE armourer’s PRENTICES. 


large rough deer-hound, both close friends who could be trusted at 
large. There was a mournful dispirited look about the hound, evi- 
dently an aged animal, tor the once black muzzle was touched with 
gray, and there was a film over one of tlie keen beautiful eyes, 
which opened easrerly as he pricked his ears and lifted his head at the 
rattle ot the door latch. Then, as two boys came out, he rose, and 
with a slowly waving tail, and a wistful appealing air came and laid 
his head against one ot the pair who had appeared in the porch. 
They w^ere lads of fourteen and fifteen, clatl in suits of neW mourn- 
ing,"with the short belted doublet, putted hose, small rufis and little 
round caps of early Tudor times. They had dark eyes and hair and 
honest open faces, the younger ruddy and sunburnt, the elder thinner 
and more intellectual — and they were so much the same size that the 
advantage of age was always supposed to be on the side of Stephen, 
though he w^as really the junior by nearly a year. Both were sad 
and grave, and the eyes and cheeks of Stephen showed traces of 
recent floods of tears, though there was more settled dejection on the 
countenance of his brother. 

“ Ay, Spring,” said the lad, ” ’lis winter with thee now\ A poor 
old rogue! Did the new housewife talk of a halter . because he 
showed his teeth when her ill-nurtured brat wanted to ride on him! 
Nay, old Spring, thou shalt share thy master’s fortunes, changed 
though the}'^ be. Oh, father! father! didst thou guess how it would 
be with thy boys!” And throwing himself on the grass, he hid his 
face against the dog and sobbed. 

“ Come, Stephen, Stephen; ’tis time to play the man! What are 
we to do out in the world if you weep and wail?” 

” She might have let us stay for the month’s mind,” w'as heard 
from Stephen. 

” Ay, and though w^e might be more glad to go, we might carry 
bitterer thoughts along with us. Better be done with it at once, 
say 1.” 

” There would still be the Forest! And 1 saw the moor-hen sitting 
j'estereve! And the wild ducklings are out on the pool, and the 
woods are full of song. Ah! Ambrose! 1 never knew how hard it 
is to part—” 

” Nay, now, Steve, where be all your plots for bravery? You al- 
ways meant to seek your fortune — not bide here like an acorn for 
ever.” 

” 1 never thought to be thrust forth the very day ot our poor fa- 
ther’s burial, by a shiewish town-bred vixen, and a base narrow- 
souled— ” 

“ Hist! hist!” said the more prudent Ambrose. 

‘‘ Let him hear who will! He cannot do worse for us than he has 
done! All the Forest will cry shame on him for a mean-hearted 
skinflint to turn his brothers from their home, ere their father and 
his be cold in his grave.” cried Stephen, clinching the grass with 
his hands, m his pas-sionate sense ot wrong. 

” That’s womanish,” said Ambrose. 

“ Who’ll be the woman when the time comes tor drawing cold 
steel?” cried Stephen, sitting up. 

At that moment there came through the porch a man, a tew years 
over thirty, likewise in mourning, with a paler, .sharper countenance 


THE ARMOUKEK’s PRENTICES. 5 

than the brothers, and an uncomfortable pleading expression of self- 
justification. 

“ How now, lads!” he said, ‘‘ what, means this passion? You 
have taken the matter too hastily. I'here was no thought that ye 
should part till you had some purpose in view. Nay, we should be 
tain lor Ambrose to bide on here, so he would leave his portion for 
me to deal with, and teach little Will his primer and accidence. 
You are a quiet lad, Ambrose, and can rule your tongue better than 
Stephen, though you be j’^ounger.” 

” Thanks, brother John,” said Ambrose, somewhat sarcastically, 
” but where Stephen goes 1 go.” 

” 1 would — 1 would have found Stephen a place among the 
prickers or rangers, it — ” hesitated John. ‘‘ In sooth 1 would yet 
do it, if he would make it up with the housewife.” 

“ My father looked higher for his son than a pricker’s office,” re- 
turned Ambrose. 

” That do I wot,” said John, ‘‘and therefore, 'tis tor his own 
good that i would send him forth. Ilrs godfather, our Uncle 
Birkenholt, he will assuredly provide for him, and set him forth — ” 

Tire door of the house was opened and a shrewish voice cried, 
‘‘Mr. Birkenholt, here, husband! You are wanted. Here’s little 
Kate crying to have your smooth pouch to stroke, and i cannot 
reach it for her.” 

‘‘ Father set store by that otter skin pouch, for poor Prince Arthur 
slew the otter,” cried Slephen. ‘‘ iSurely, John, you’ll not let the 
babes make a toy of that?” 

John made a helpless gesture, and at a renewed call, went indoors. 

‘‘ You are right, Ambrose,” said Stephen, ‘‘ this is no place for 
us. Why should we tarry any longer to see everything moiled and 
set at naught! 1 have couched in the forest before, and ’tis sum- 
mer time.” 

” Nay,” said Ambrose, “ we must make up our fardels and have 
our money in our pouches before we can depart. We must tarry 
the night, and call John to his reckoning, and so might we set forth 
early enough in the morning to lie at Winchester that night and take 
counsel with out Uncle Birkenholt.” 

‘‘ 1 would not stop short at Winchester,” said Stephen. ” Lon- 
don for me, where Uncle Randall will find us preferment!” 

‘‘ And what wilt do for Spring?” 

‘‘ Take him with me, of course!” exclaimed Stephen. ‘‘What! 
would 1 leave him to be kicked and pinched by Will, and hanged 
belike by Mistress Maud?” 

‘‘ 1 doubt me whether the poor old hound will brook the jouiney.” 

‘‘ Then I’ll carry him?” 

Ambrose looked at the big dog as if he thought it would be a seri- 
ous undertaking, but he had known and loved Spring as his 
brother s property ever since his memory began, and he scarcely felt 
that they could be separable for weal or woe. 

The verdurers of the New Forest were of gentle blood, and their 
oftlce was well-nigh hereditary. The Birkenholts had held it for 
manj’- generations, and the reversion passed as a matter of course to 
the eldest son of the late holder, who had newly been laid in the 
burial-ground of Beaulieu Abbey. John Birkenholt, whose mother 


6 


THE ARHOURER’S PRENTICES. 


had been of knightly lineage, had resented his father’s second mar- 
riage with the daughter of a yeoman on the verge of the Forest, sus- 
pected of a strain of gypsv blood, and had lived little at home, be- 
coming a sort of agent at Southampton for business connected with 
the timber which was yearly cut in the Forest to supply material for 
the shipping. He had wedded the daughter of a person engaged in 
law business at Southampton, and had only been an occasional vis- 
itor at home, even after the death of his step mother. She had left 
these two boys, unwelcome appendages in his sight. They had ob- 
tained a certain amount of education at Beaulieu Abbey, where a 
school was kept, and where Ambrose daily studied, though for the 
last few months Stephen had assisted his father in his forest duties. 

Death had come suddenly to break up the household in the early 
spring of 1515, and John Birkenholt had returned as if to a patri- 
mony, bringing his wife and children with him. The funeral 
ceremonies had been conducted at Beaulieu Abbey on the e.xtensive 
scale of the sixteenth century, the requiem, the feast, and the dole, 
all taking place there, leaving the Forest lodge in its ordinary quiet. 

It had always been understood that on their father’s death, the 
two younger sons must make their own way in the world; but he 
had hoped to live until they were a little older, when he might him- 
self have started them in life, or expressed his wishes respecting 
them to their elder brother. As it was, however, there was no com- 
mendation of them, nothing but a strip of parchment, drawn up by 
one of the monks of Beaulieu, leaving each of them twenty crowns, 
with a few small jewels and properties left by their own mother, 
while everything else went to their brother. 

There might have been some jealousy excited by the estimation in 
which Stephen’s efficiency — boy as he was — was evidently held by 
the plain-spoken underlings of the verdurer; and this added to Mis- 
tress Birkenholt’s dislike to the presence of her husband’s half- 
brothers, whom she regarded as interlopers without a right to exist. 
Matters were brought to a climax by old Spring’s resentment at 
being roughly teased by her spoiled children. He had done nothing 
worse than growl, and show his teeth, but the town-bred dame had 
taken alarm, and half in terror, halt in spite, had insisted on his in- 
stant execution, since he was too old to be valuable. Stephen, who 
loved the dog only less than he loved his brother Ambrose, had come 
to high words with her; and the end of the altercation nad been 
that she would suffer no great lubbers of the half-blood to devour her 
children’s inheritance, and teach them ill manners, and that go they 
must, and that instantly. John had muttered a little about “ not so 
last, dame,” and ” for very shame,” but she had turned on him, and 
rated him with a violence that demonstrated who was ruler in the 
house, and took away all disposition to tarry long under the new 
dynasty. 

The toys possessed two uncles, one on each side of the house. 
Their father’s elder brother had been a man-at-arms, having pre- 
ferred a stirring life to the Forest, and had fought in the last surges 
of the Wars of the Roses. Having become disabled and infirm,"he 
had taken advantage of a corrody, or right of maintenance, as being 
of kin to a benefactor of Hyde Abbey at Winchester, to which 
Birkenholt some generations back hud presented a few roods of land, 


THE AKMOUREIi’s PRENTTOES. 7 

in right ot which, one descendant at a time might be maintained in 
the abbey. Intelligence ot his brother’s death had been sent to 
Richard Birkenholt. but answer had been returned that he was too 
evil disposed with the gout to attend the burial. 

The other uncle, Harry Randall, had disappeared from the coun- 
try under a cloud connected witli the king’s deer, leaving behind 
him the reputation of a careless, thriftless, jovial fellow, the best 
company in all the Forest, and capable ot doing every one’s work 
save his own. 

The two brothers, who were about seven and six years old at the 
time of his flight, had a lively recollection ot his charms as a play- 
mate, and ot their mother’s grief for him, and refusal to believe an}^ 
ill of her Hal. Rumors had cx)me of his attainment to vague and 
unknown greatness at court, under the patronage of the Lord Arch- 
bishop of York, wliich tile Verdurer laughed to scorn, though his 
wife gave credit to them. Gifts had come from time to time passed 
through a succession ot servants and officials ot the king, such as a 
coral and silver rosary, a jeweled bodkin, an agate carved with St. 
Catherine, an ivory pouncet box with a pierced gold angel as the lid; 
but no letter with them, as indeed Hal Randall had never been in- 
duced to learn to read or write. Master Birkenholt looked doubt- 
fully at the tokens and hoped Hal had come honestly by them; but 
his wife had thoroughlj'^ imbued her sons with the belief that Uncle 
Hal was shining in his proper sphere, where he was better appre- 
ciated than at home. Thus their one plan was to go to London to 
find Uncle Hal, who was sure to put Stephen on the road to fort- 
une, and enable Ambrose to become a great scholar, his favorite am- 
bition. 

His gifts would, as Ambrose observed, serve them as tokens, and 
with tlie purpose of claiming them, they re-entered the hall, a long 
low room with a handsome open root, and walls tapestried with dress 
skins, interspersed with antlers, hung with weapons of the chase. 
At one end of the hall was a small polished barrel, always replen- 
ished with beer, at the other a hearth with a wood fire constantly 
burning, and there was a table running the whole length of the room; 
at one end ot this was laid a cloth, with a few trenchers on it, and 
horn cups, surrounding a barley loaf and a cheese, this meager ir- 
regular supper being considered as a suflicient supplement to the 
funeral baked meats which had abounded at Beaulieu. John Birken- 
liolt sat at the table with a trencher and horn before him, uneasily 
using his knite to crumble, rather than cut his bread. His wife, a 
thin, pale, shrewish-looking woman, was warming her child’s feet 
at the fire, before putting him to bed, and an old woman sat spin- 
ning and nodding on a settle at a little distance. 

“ Brother,” said Stephen, ” we have thought on what you said. 
We will put our stuff together, and if you will count us out our por- 
tions, we will be afoot by sunrise to-morrow.” 

“ Nay, nay, lad, 1 said not there was such haste; did I, mistress 
hou.sewife?” — (she snorted); ” only that thou art a well-grown lusty 
fellow, and ’tis time thou wentest forth. For thee, Ambrose, thou 
wottest 1 made thee a fair offer of bed and board.” 

” That is,” called out the wife, ” if thou wilt make a fair scholar 


8 


THE ARMOUEER’S PRENTICES. 

ot little Will. ’Tis a mighty good offer. There are not many who 
would let their child be taught by a mere stripling like thee!” 

” Nay,” said Ambrose, who could not bring himself to thank her, 
“ I go with Stephen, mistress; 1 would mend scholarship ere I 
teach.” 

” As you please,” said Mistress Maud, shrugging her shoulders, 
* ‘only never say that a fair offer was not made to you.” 

” And,” said Stephen, “ so please you. Brother John, hand us over 
our portions, and the jewels as bequeathed to us, and we will be 
gone.”. 

“ Portions, quothaV” returned John. ” Boy, they be not due to 
you till you be come to years ot discretion.” 

The brothers looked at one another, and Stephen said, ‘‘Nay, 
now, brother, 1 know not how that may be, but 1 do know that 
you cannot drive us from our father’s house without maintenance, 
and detain what belongs to us.” 

And Ambrose muttered something about ‘‘ my Lord of Beaulieu. ” 

‘‘ Look you, now,” said John, ‘‘ did 1 ever speak of driving you 
from home without maintenance? Hath not Ambrose had his choice 
of staying here, and Stephen of waiting till some office be found for 
him? As for putting forty crowns into the hands ot striplings like 
you, it were mere throwing it to the robbers.” 

‘‘ That being so,” said Ambrose, turning to Stephen, ” we will to 
Beaulieu, and see what counsel my lord will give us.” 

‘‘ Yea, do, like the vipers ye are, and embroil us with my Lord of 
Beaulieu,” cried Maud from the fire. 

‘‘ See,” said John, in his more caressing fashion, ” it is not well 
to carry family tales to strangers, and — and — ” 

He was disconcerted by a laugh from the old nurse. ‘‘ Ho! John 
Birkenholt, thou wast ever a lad of smooth tongue, but an thou, or 
madam here, think that thy brothers can be put forth from thy fa- 
ther’s door v/ithout their due before the good man be cold in his 
grave, without the Forest ringing with it, thou art mightily out in 
thy reckoning!” 

‘‘ Peace, thou old hag; what matter is’t ot thine?” began Mistress 
Maud, but again came the harsh laugh. 

‘‘ IVIatter of mine! Why, whose matter should it be but mine, 
that have nursed all three of the lads, ay, and their father before 
them, besides four more that lie in the graveyard at Beaulieu? Rest 
their sweet souls! And 1 tell thee. Master John, an thou do not 
righteously by these thy brothers, thou mayst back to thy parch- 
ments at Southampton, for not a man orbeasfrin the Forest will give 
thee good day.” 

They all felt the old woman’s authority. She was able and spirited 
in her homely way, and mote mistress of the house than Mrs. 
Birkenholt herself; and such were the terms ot domestic service, 
that there was no peril of losing her place. Even Maud knew that 
to turn her out was an impossibility, and that she must be accepted 
like the loneliness, damp, and other evils ot Forest life. John had 
been under her dominion, and proceeded to persuade her. ” Good 
now. Nurse Joan, what have 1 denied these rstsh striplings that my 
father would have granted them? Wouldst thou have them carry 


THE ARMOUKER’s PRENTICES. 9 

all their portion in their hands, to be cozened ot it at the first ale- 
house, or robbed on the next heath?” 

'* 1 would have thee do a brother’s honest part, John Birkenholt. 
A loving part, i say not. Thou.vvert always like a very popple tor 
hardness, and smoothness, ay, and slipperiness. Heigh ho! but 
what IS right by the lads, thou slmlt do.” 

John cowered under her eye as he had done at six years old, and 
faltered, ” 1 only seek to do them right, nurse.” 

Nurse Joan uttered an emphatic grunt, but JMisjtress Maud broke 
in, “ They are not to hang about here in idleness eating my poor 
child’s substance and teaching him ill manners.” 

” We would not stay here if jmu paid us for it,” returned 
Stephen. 

” And whither would you go?” asked John. 

” To Winchester first to seek counsel with our Uncle Birkenholt. 
Then to London, where Uncle Randall will help us to our fortunes.” 

” Gypsy Hal! He is more like to help you to a halter,” sneered 
John, but soito voce, and Joan herself observed, ” Their uncle at 
Winche.ster will show them better than to run after that there go- 
by-chance.” 

However, as no one wished to keep the youths, and they were 
equally deterjnined to go, an accommodation was conie to at last. 
John w'as induced to give them three crowns apiece and to 
yield them up the five small trinkets specified, though not with- 
out some murmurs from his wife. It was no doubt safer to 
leave the rest of the money in his hands than to carry it with 
them, and he undertook that it should be forthcoming, if needed for 
any fit purpose, such as the purchase of anotflce, an apprentice’s fee, 
or an outfit as a squire. It was a vague promise that cost him noth- 
ing just then, and so could be readily made, and John’s great desire 
was to get them away so that he could aver that they had gone by 
their own free will, without any hardship, for he had seen enough 
at his father’s obsequies to show him that the love and sympathy of 
all the scanty dwellers in the Forest was with them. 

Nurse Joan had fought their battles, but with the sore heart of 
one who was parting with her darlings never to see them agarn. She 
bade them doff their suits of mourning that she might make up their 
fardels, as they would travel in their Lincoln-green suits. To take 
these she repaired to the little rough shed-like chamber where the 
two brothers lay for the last time on their pallet bed awake and 
watching tor her with Spring at their feet. The poor old woman 
stood over them, as over the motherless nurslings whom she had 
tended, and she should probably never see more, but she was a 
woman of shrewd sense, and perceived that ” with the new madam 
in the hall ” it was better that they should be gone before worse 
ensued. 

She'advised leaving their valuables sealed up in the hands of my 
Lord Abbott, but they were averse to this — for they said their Uncle 
Randall, who had not seen them since they were liltle children, 
would not know them without some pledge. 

She shook her head. ” The less you deal with Hal Randall the 
better,” she said. ” Come now, lads, be advised and go no further 
tlum 'Winchester, where Master Ambrose may get all the book-learn- 


10 


THE armourer’s PRENTICES. 


ing he is ever craving for, and you, iVlaster Steevie, may prentice 
yourself to some good trade.” 

Prentice,” cried Stephen, scornfully. 

“ Ay, ay. .As good blood as thine has been prenticed,” returned 
Joan. ” Better so than be a cut-throat sword aud buckler fellow, 
ever slaying some one else or getting tnyself slain — a terroi to all 
peaceful folk. But thine uncle will see to that — a steady-minded 
lad always was he — was Master Dick.” 

Consoling herself with this hope, the old woman rolled up their 
new suits with some linen into two neat knapsacks; sighing over 
the thought that unaccustomed fingers would deal with the shirts 
she had spun, bleached and sewn. But she had confidence in 
” Master Dick,” and concluded that to send his nephews to him at 
Winchester gave a far better chance of their being cared tor, than 
letting them be flouted into ill-doing by their grudging brother aud 
his wife. 


CHAPTER 11. 

THE GRANGE OP SILKSTEDE. 

“ All Itchen’s valley lay, 

St. Catherine’s breezy side and the woodlands far away, 

The huge Cathedral sleeping in venerable gloom. 

The modest College tower, and the bedesmen’s Norman home.” 

Lord Selborne. 

Very early in the morning, even according to the habits of the 
time, were Stephen and Ambrose Birkenholt astir. They were full 
of ardor to enter on the new and unknown world beyond the Forest, 
and much as they loved it, any change that kept them still to their 
altered life would have been distasteful. 

Nurse Joan, asking no questions, folded up their fardels on their 
backs, packed the wallets for their day’s journey with ample pro- 
vision. She charged them to be good lads, to say their Pater, Credo, 
and Ave daily, and never omit Mass on a Sunday. They kissed her 
like their mother and promised heartily — and Stephen took his cross- 
bow. They had had some hope of setting forth so early as to avoid 
all other ?mman farewells, except that Ambrose wished to begin liy 
going to Beaulieu, to take leave of the Father who had been his 
kind master, and get his blessing and counsel. But Beaulieu was 
three miles out of their way, and Stephen had not the same desire, 
being less attached to his schoolmaster and more afraid of hinderances 
being thrown in their way. 

Moreover, contrary to their expectation, their elder brother came 
forth, and declared his intention of setting them forth on their 
way, bestowing a great amount of good advice, to the same purport 
as that of Nurse Joan, namely, that they should let iheii Uncle 
Richard Birkenholt find them some employment at Winchester, 
where they — or at least Ambrose — might even obtain admission into 
the famous college of St. Alary. 

In fact, this excellent elder brother persuaded himself that it would 
be doing them an absolute wrong to keep such promising youths 
hidden in the forest. 

The purpose of his going thus far with them made itsclt eyident. 


THE armourer’s PRENTICES. 11 

It was to seo them past the turning to Beaulieu. No doubt he 
wished to tell the story in Ids own way, and that they should not 
present themselves there as orphans e.xpelled from their father’s 
liouse. It would sound much better that he had sent them to ask 
counsel of iheii uncle at Winchester, the fit person to take charge of 
them. And as he represented that to go to Beaulieu would lengthen 
their day’s journey so much that they might hardly reach Winches- 
ter that night, while all Stephen’s wishes were to go forward, Am- 
brose could only send his greetings. There was another debate over 
bpring, who had followed his master as usual. John uttered an ex- 
clamation. of vexation at perceiving it, and bade Stephen drive the 
dog back. “ Or give me the leash to drag him. He will never fol- 
low me.” 

‘‘ He goes with us,” said Stephen. 

‘‘He! Thou’lt never have the folly ! The old hound is half blind 
and past use. No man will take thee in with him after thee,” 

” Then they shall not take me in,” ^aid Stephen, ” I’ll not leave 
him to be hanged by thee,” 

“Who spoke of hanging him?” 

“ Thy wife will soon, if she hath not already,” 

“ Thou wilt be for hanging him thyself ere thou have made a 
day’s journey with him on the king’s highway, which is not like 
these forest paths, 1 would have thee to know. Why, he limps al- 
ready.” 

“ Then I’ll carry him,” said Stephen, doggedly. 

“ What hast thou to say to that device, Ambrose?” asked John, 
appealing to the eldfer and wiser. 

But Ambrose only answered “ I’ll help,” and as John had no par- 
ticular desire to retain the superannuated hound, and preferred on 
the whole to be spared sentencing him, no more was said on the 
subject as they went along, until all John’s stock of good counsel 
had been lavished on his brothers’ impatient earn. He bade them 
farewell, and turned back to the lodge, and they struck away along 
the woodland pathway which they had been told led to Winchester, 
though they had never been thither, nor seen any town save South- 
ampton and Uomsey at long intervals. On they went, sometimes 
through beech and oak woods of noble, almost primeval, trees, but 
more often across tracts of holly underwood, illuminated here and 
there with the snowy garlands of the wild cherry, and beneath with 
wide spaces covered with young green bracken, whose soft irregular 
masses ■ on the undulating ground had somewhat the effect of the 
waves of the sea. These afteruated with stretches of yellow gorse 
and brown heather, sheets of cotton-grass, and pools of white crow- 
foot, and all the vegetation of a mountain side, only that the mount- 
ain was not there. 

The brothers looked with eyes untaught to care for beauty, but 
with a certain love of the home scenes, tempered by youth’s im- 
patience for something new. The nightingales sung, the thrushes 
tlew out before them, the wild duck and moor-hen glanced on the 
pools. Here and there they came on the furrows left by the snout 
of the wild swine, and in the open tracts rose the graceful heads of 
the deer, but of inhabitants or travelers they scarce saw any, save 
when they halted at the little hamlet of Minestead, where a small 


12 


THE armourer’s PRENTICES. 


ale-house was kept by one Will Purkiss, who claimed descent from 
the charcoal burner who had carried William Rufus’s corpse to 
burial at Winchester — the one fact in history known to all New 
Foresters, though perhaps Ambrose and John were tlie onl}" persons 
beyond the walls of Beaulieu who did not suppose the affair to have 
taken place in the last generation. 

A draught ot ale and a short rest were welcome as the heat of the 
day came on, making the old dog plod wearily on with his tongue 
out, so that Stephen began to consider whether he should indeed 
have to be his bearer — a serious matter, for the creature, at full 
length, measured nearly as much as he did. They met hardly anj’’ 
one, and they and Spring were alike too well known and trained, 
for difficulties to arise as to leading a dog through the Forest. Should 
they ever come to the term of the Forest? It was not easy to tell 
when they were really beyond it, for the ground was much of the 
same kind. Only the smooth, treeless hills, where they had always 
been told Winchester lay, saemed more defined, and they saw no 
more deer, but here and there were inclosures where wheat and bar- 
ley were growing, and black-timbered farm-houses began to show 
themselves at intervals. Herd boys, as rough and unkempt as their 
charges, could be seen looking after little tawny cows, black-faced 
sheep, or spotted pigs, with curs which barked fiercely at poor weary 
Siiring, even as their masters were more disposed to throw stones 
than to answer questions. 

By and by, on the further side of a green valley, could be seen 
buildings with an encircling wall of flint and mortar faced with 
ruddy brick, the dark red-tiled roofs rising among walnut trees, and 
an orchard in full bloom speading into a long green field. 

“ Winchester must be nigh. The sun is getting low,” said 
Stephen. 

” We will ask. The good fathers will at least give us an an- 
swer,” said Ambrose wearily. 

As they reached the gate, a team of plow horses was passing in led 
by a peasant lad, while a lay brother, with his gown tucked up, rode 
sideways on one, whistling. An Augustinian monk, ruddy, burly 
and sunburnt, stood in the farm-yard, to receive an account of the 
day’s work, and doffing his cap, Ambrose asked whether AAinches- 
ter were near. ” Three miles or thereaway, my good lad,” said the 
monk; ” thou'lt see the towers an ye mount the hill. Whence art 
thou?” he added, looking at the two young strangers. ‘‘ Scholars? 
The college elects not yet a while.” 

“ We be from the Forest, so please your reverence,” replied Am- 
brose, ” and are bound for Hyde Abbey, where our uncle, Master 
Richaid Birkenholt, dwells.” 

‘‘ And oh, sir,” added Stephen, ” may we crave a drop of water 
for our dog?” 

The monk smiled as he looked at Spring, who had flung himself 
down to take advantage of the halt, hanging out his tongue, and 
panting spasmodically. ” A noble beast,” he said, ‘‘ of the Windsor 
breed, is’t not?” Then laying his hand on the graceful head, ” Poor 
old hound, thou art o’er-traveled. He is aged for such a journey, 
if you came from the Forest since morn. Twelve years at the least] 

1 should say, by his muzzle.” ’ 


THE armoureh's prehtices. J3 

“ Tour reverence is liglit,” said Stephen, “ lie is twelve years old. 
lie is two years younger than ] am, and my father gave liim to me 
when he was a little whelp.” 

” So thou must needs take him to seek thy fortune with thee,” 
said the good-natured Augustinian, not knowing how truly he spoke. 
‘‘ Come in, my lads, here’s a drink for him. What said you was 
your uncle’s name?” and as Ambrose repeated it, ‘‘ Birkenholt! 
Living on a corrody at Hyde! Ay! ay! My lads, I have a call to 
Winchester to-morrow, you’d best tarry the night here at Silkstede 
Grange, and fare forward with me.” 

The tired hoys were heartily glad to accept the invitation, more 
especially as Spring, happy as he was with the trough of water be- 
fore him, seemed almost too tired to stand over it, and after the first, 
tried to lap, lying down. Silkstede was not a regular convent, only 
a grange or farm-house, presided over by one ot the monks, with 
three or four lay brethren under him, and a little colony of hinds, in 
the surrounding cottage.s, to cultivate the farm, and tend a few cat- 
tle and numerous sheep, the special care of the Augustinians. 

Father Shoveller, as the good-natured monk who had received the 
travelers was called, took them into the spacious but homel}^ cham- 
ber which served as refectory, kitchen and hall He called to the 
lay brother who was busy over the open hearth to fry a few more 
rashers of bacon; and after they had washed away the dust of their 
journey at the trough where Spring had slaked his thirst, they sat 
down with him to a hearty supper, which smacked more of the 
grange than of the monastery, spread on a large solid oak table, and 
washed down with good ale. The repast was shared by the lay 
brethren and farm servants, and also by two or .three big sheep dogs, 
who had to be taught their manners toward Spring. 

There was none of the formality that Ambrose was accustomed to 
at Beaulieu in the great refectory, where no one spoke, but one of 
the brethren read aloud some theological book from a stone pulpit 
in the wall. Here Brother Shoveller conversed without stint, chielly 
with the brother who seemed to be a kind of bailiff, with whom he 
discussed the sheep that were to be taken into market the next day, 
and the prices to be given for them by either the college, the castle, 
or the butcliers of Boucher Row. He liowever found time to talk to 
the two guests, and being sprung from a family in the immediate 
neighborhood, he knew the verdurer’s name, and ere he was a 
monk, had joined in the chase in the Forest. 

There was a little oratory attached to the hall, where he and the 
lay brethren kept the hours, to a certain degree, putting two or three 
services into one, on a liberal interpretation of laborare est orare. 
Ambrose’s responses made their host observe as they went out, 
” Thou hast thy Latin pat, my son, there’s the making ot a scholar 
in thee.” 

I'hen they took their first night’s rest away from home, in a small 
guest-chamber, wilh a good bed, though bare in all other respects. 
Brother Shoveller likewise had a cell to himself, but the lay brethren 
slept promiscuously among their sheep dogs on the floor of the re- 
fectory. 

All were afoot in the early morning, and Stephen and Ambrose 
were awakened by the tumultuous bleatings ot the flock of sheep 


14 


TnE armoittier’s prentices. 

that were being driven from their fold to meet their fate at Winches- 
tei market. They heard Brotlier Shoveller shouting his orders to the 
shepherds in tones a good deal more like those of a farmer than of u 
monk, and they made haste to diess themselves, and join him as lie 
was muttering a morning abbreviation of his obligatory de'^otions 
in the oratory, observing that they might be in time to hear mass at 
one of the city churches, but the sheep might delay them, and they 
had best break their fast ere starting. 

It was Wednesday, a day usually kept as a moderate fast, so the 
breakfast was of oatmeal porridge, flavored with honey, and washed 
down with mead, after which Brother Shoveller mounted his mule, 
a sleek creature whose long ear’s had an air of great contentment, and 
rode off, accommodating his pace to that of his young companions 
up a stony cart track which soon led them to the top of a chalk 
down, whence as in a map they could see Winchester, surrounded 
by its walls, lying in a hollow between the smooth green hills. At 
one end rose the castle, its fortiflcalions covering its own hill, be- 
neath, in the valley, the long, low uiiissive cathedral, the college 
buildings and tower with its pinnacles, and neater at hand, among 
the trees, the Almshouse of Noble Poverty at St. Cross, beneath the 
round hill of St. Catherine. Churenes and monastic buildings stood 
thickly in the town, and indeed. Brother Shoveller said, shaking his 
head, that there were well nigh as many churches as folk to go to 
them; the place was decayed since the time he remembered when 
Prince Arthur was born there. Hyde Abbey, he could not show 
them, from where they stood, as it lay further^ofif by the river side, 
having been removed from the neighborhood of the minster, be- 
cause these, the brethren of St. Grimbald, could not agree with 
those of St. Swithun’s belonging to the minster, as indeed their build- 
ings were so close together that it was hardly possible to pass between 
them, and their bells jangled in each other’s ears. 

Brother Shoveller diid not seem to entertain a very high opinion of 
the monks of St. Grimbald, and he asked the boys whether they 
were’ expected there. “ No,” they said; ‘‘tidings of their father’s 
death had been sent by one of the w’oodmen, and the only answ’er 
that had been returned was that Master Richard Birkenholt was ill 
at ease, but wmuld have masses said for his brother’s soul.” 

“Ilera!” said the Augustinian ominously; but at that moment 
they came up with the sheep, and bis attention was W’holly absorbed 
by tliem, as he joined the lay brothers in directing the shepherds 
who were driving them across the downs, steering them over the high 
ground toward the arehed AVest Gate close to the royal castle. The 
street sloped rapidly down, and Brother Shoveller conducted his 
young companions between the overhanging houses, with stalls be- 
tween serving as shops, till they reached lire open space round the 
market cross, on the steps of which women sat with baskets of eggs, 
butter and poultry, raised above the motley throng of cattle and 
sheep, with their dogs and drivers, the various cries of man and beast 
forming an incongruous accompaniment , to the bells of the churches 
that surrounded the market-place. 

Citizens’ wives in hood and wimple were there, shrilly bargaining 
for provision for their households, squires and grooms in cpiest of 
hay for their masters’ stables, purveyors seeking food for the garri- 


15 


THE AKMOUEEU'S PRENTICES. 

son, lay brethren and sisters for their convents, and withal the 
usual margin of begging friars, wandering gleemen, jugglers and 
IXiddlers, though in no great numbers, as this was only a AVednesday 
market-day, not a fair. Ambrose recognized one or two who had 
made part of the crowd at Beaulieu only two days previously, when 
he had “ seen through tears the juggler leap,” and the jingling tune 
one of them was playing on a rebeck brought back associations of 
almost unbearable pain. Happily Father Shoveller, having seen his 
sheep safely bestowed in a pen, bethought him of bidding the lay 
brother in attendance show the young gentlemen the wa}Mo Hyde 
Abbey, and turning up a street at right angles to the principal one, 
they were soon out of the throng. 

It was a louely place, with a decayed uninhabited appearance, and 
Brother Peter told them it had been the Jewry, whence good King 
Edward had banished all the unbelieving dogs of Jews, and where 
no one chose to dwell after them. 

Soon they came in sight of a large extent of monastic buildings, 
partly of stone, but the more domestic offices of flint and brick or 
mortar. Large meadows stretched away to the banks of the Itchen, 
with cattle grazing in them, but iu one Wiis a set of figures to whom 
the lay brother pointed with a laugh of exulting censure. 

“Longbows!” exclaimed Stephen. “Who be they?” 

“ Brethren of St. Grimbald, sir. Such rule doth my Lord of Hyde 
keep, mitered abbot though he be. They say the good bishop liath 
called him to order, but what reckons he of bishops? Good-day, 
Brother Bulpett, here be two young kinsmen of Master Birkenholt 
to visit him, and so benedicite, fair sirs. St. Austin’s grace be with 
you!” 

Through a gate between two little red octagonal towers. Brother 
Bulpett led the two visitors, and called to another of the monks, 
“ Benedicite, Father Segrim, here be two striplings v/anting speech of 
old Birkenholt.” 

“ Looking after dead men’s shoes, 1 trow,” muttered Father 
Segrim, with a sour look at the lads, as he led them through the 
outer court, where some fine horses were being groomed, and then 
across a second court surrounded with a beautiful cloister, with 
flower beds in front of it. Here, on a stone bench, in the sun, clad 
in a gown furred with rabbit skin, sat a decrepit old man, both his 
hands clasped over his staff. Into his deaf ears their guide shouted, 
“ These boys say they are your kindred. Master Birkenholt.” 

“ Anan?’’ said the old man, trembling with palsy. The lads 
knew him to be older than their father, but they were taken by sur- 
prise at such feebleness, and the monk did not aid them, only saying 
roughly, “ There he is. Tell your errand.” 

“ How fares it with you, uncle?” ventured Ambrose. 

“ AVho be ye? 1 know none of you,” muttered the old man, 
shaking his head still moie. 

“ AVe are Ambrose and Stephen from the Forest,” shouted Am- 
brose. 

“ Ah. Steve! Poor Stevie! The accursed boar has rent his goodly 
face so as 1 would never have known him. Poor Steve! Rest his 
soul! ’ 

The old man began to weep, while his nephews recollected that 


16 


THE armourer’s PRENTICES. 


they had heard that another uncle had been slain by the tusk of a 
wild boar in early manhood. Then to their surprise, his eyes fell on 
Spring, and calling the hound by name, he caressed the creature’s 
head — “ Spring, poor Spring! Stevie’s faithful old dog. Hast lost 
thy master? Wilt follow me now?” 

He was thinking of a Spring, as well as of a Stevie of sixty years 
ago, and he babbled on of how many fawns were in the Queen’s 
Bower ibis summer, and who had best shot at the butts at Lynd- 
hurst, as if he were excited by the breath of his native Forest, but 
there was no making him understand that he was speaking with his 
nephews. The name of his brother John onlj^set liiiii repeating that 
John loved the greenwood, and would be content to take poor 
Stevie’s place and dwell in tire verdurer’s lodge; but that he himself 
ought to be abroad, he had seen brave Lord Talbot’s ships burnt at 
Southampton; John might stay at home, but he w'ould win fame and 
honor in Gascony. 

And while he thus w'andered, and the boys stood by perplexed 
and distressed. Brother Segrim came back, and said, “ So, young sir, 
have you seen enough of your doting kinsman? The sub-pnor bids 
me say that we harbor no strange idling lubber lads, nor strange 
dogs here. ’Tis enough for us to be saddled with dissolute old 
men-at-arms without all their idle kin making an excuse to come 
and pay their devoirs. These corrodies are a heavy charge and a 
weighty abuse, and if there be the visitation the king’s majesty 
speaks of, they will be one of the first matters to be amended.” 

Wherewith Stephen and Ambrose found themselves walked out 
of the cloister of St. Grimbald, and the gates shut behind them. 


CHAPTER 111. 

KINSMEN AND STRANGERS. 

“ The reul of St. Maure and of St. Beneit 
Because that it was old and some deale streit 
This ilke monk let old things pace ; 

He held ever of the new world the trace.” 

Chaucer. 

“ The churls!” exclaimed Stephen. 

” Poor old man!” said Ambrose; ” 1 hope they are good to him!” 

” To think that thus ends all that once was gallant talk of fighting 
under Talbot’s banner,” sighed Stephen, thoughtful for a moment. 

“ However, there’s a good deal to come first.” 

” Yea, and what next?” said the elder brother. 

“ On to Lncle Hal. 1 ever looked most to him. He will purvey 
me to a page’s place in some noble household, and get thee a clerk’s 
or scholar’s place in my Lord of York’s house. JVlayhap there will 
be room for us both there, tor my Lord of York hath a goodly fol- 
lowing of armed men.” 

” Which way lies the road to London?” 

“We must back into the town and ask. as well as fill our stomachs 
and our wallets,” said Ambrose. ” Talk of their rule! The enter- 
tainiug ol strangers is better understood at Silkstede than at Hyde.” 

” Tush! A grudged crust sticks in the gullet,” returned Stephen. 


THE ARMOUR Eli's I’REXTICES. 17 

“ Come on, Ambrose, 1 marked the sign of the White Hart by the 
market-place. There will be a welcome there lor foresters.” 

They returned on their steps past the dilapidated buildings of the 
old Jewry, and presently saw the market in full activity; but the 
sounds and sights of busy life where they were utter sti angers, gave 
Ambrose a sense of loneliness and desertion, and his heart sunk as 
the bolder Stephen* threaded the way in the direction of a broad entry 
over which stood a slender-bodied hart with gold hoofs, horns, collar, 
and chain. 

“ How now, my sons?” said a lull cheery voice, and to their joy 
they found themselves pushed up against Fatiier Shoveller. 

‘‘ Returned already! Did you get scant welcome at Hyde? Here, 
come where we can get a tree breath, and tell me.” 

They passed through the open gateway of the White Hart, into the 
court, but before listening to them, the monk exchanged greetings 
with the hostess, who stood at the door in a broad hat and velvet 
bodice, and demanded what cheer there w’as for noon-meat. 

‘ ‘ A jack, reverend sir, eels and a grampus fresh sent up trom 
Hampton; also fresh killed mutton for such lay folk as are not curi- 
ous of the Wednesday fast. 'I'hey are laying the board even now.” 

“ Lay a platter for me and these two young gentlemen,” said the 
Augustinian. ” Ye bemy guests, yewot,” he added, ” since ye tar- 
ried not for meat at Hyde. ’ ’ 

” Nor did they ask us,” exclaimed Stephen; “ lubbers and idlers 
were the best words they had for us. ’ ' 

” Ho! ho! 1 hat’s the way with the brethren of St. Grim bald! 
And your uncle?” 

‘‘Alas, sir, he doteth with age,” said Ambrose. ‘‘He took 
Stephen for his own brother, dead under King Harry of Windsor.” 

‘‘So! 1 had heard somewhat of his age and sickness. Who was 
it who thrust you out?’' 

‘‘ A lean brother with a shaved red beard, and a shrewd puckered 
visage.” 

‘‘Ha! By that token 'twas Segrini the bursar. He wots how to 
drive a bargain. St. Austin! but he deemed jmu came to look after 
your kinsman’s corrodj'.” 

‘‘-He said the king spake of a visitation to abolish corrodies trom 
religious houses.” said Ambrose. 

‘‘ He’ll abolish the long bow from them first,” said Father Shov- 
eller. ‘‘ Ay, and minever from my Lord Abbot’s hood. I’d admon- 
ish you, my good brethren of St. Grimbald, to be in no hurry for a 
visitation which might scarce slop where you would fain have it. 
Well, my sous, are ye bound for the Forest again? An ye be, we’ll 
wend back together, and ye can lie at Silkste& to-night.” 

Alack, kind father, there’s no more home for us in the Forest,” 
said Ambrose. 

‘‘ iSIethought ye had a brother?” 

‘‘Yea; but our brother hath a wife.” 

” Ho! ho! And the wife will none of you.” 

■” She would have kept Ambrose to teach her boy his primer,” said 
Stephen; ‘‘ but she would none of Spring nor of me.” 

‘‘We hoped to receive counsel from our uncle at Hyde,” added 
Ambrose. 


18 


THE armourer’s prp:ntioes. 


“ Have ye no purpose nowV” inquired the fatlier, his jolly, good- 
humored face showing much concern. 

“ Yea,” manfully returned Stephen. ‘‘ ’Twas what 1 ever hoped 
to do, to fare on and seek our fortune in London.” 

‘‘ Ha! To pick up gold and silver like Dick Whittington. Poor 
old Spring here will scaree do you the part of his cat,” and the 
monk’s hearty laugh angered Stephen into muttering, “ We are no 
fools,” but Father Shoveller only laughed the more, saying, ” Fan 
and softly, my son, ye’ll never pick up the gold it ye cannot brook a 
kindly quip. Have you friends or kindred in London?” 

‘‘ Yea, that have we, sir,” cried Stephen; ‘‘our mother s own 
brother. Master Randall, hath come to preferment there in my Lord 
Archbishop of York’s household, and hath sent us tokens from time 
to time, winch we will show you.” 

‘‘ Not while we be feasting,” said Father Shoveller, hastily check 
ing Ambrose, who was feeling in his bosom. ‘‘ See, the knaves be 
bringing their grampus across the court. Here, we’ll clean ou? 
bands, and be ready for the meal;” and he showed them, under a 
projecting gallery in the inn yard a stone trough, through w'hich 
flowed a stream of water, in which he proceeded to wash his hands 
and face, and to wipe them in a coarse towel suspended nigh at hand 
Certainly after handling sheep freely there was need, though such 
ablutions were a refinement not indulged in by all the company who 
assembled round the well-spread board of the White Hart tor the 
meal after the market. They were a motley company. By the host’s 
side sat a knight on his way home from pilgrimage to Compostellai 
or perhaps a mission to Spain, wiih a couple of squires and other at 
teudants, and converse of political import seemed to he passing be 
tween him and a shrewd-looking man in a lawyer’s hood and gown 
the recorder of W inchester, who preferred being a daily guest at the 
White Hart to keeping a table of his own. Country franklins and 
yeomen, merchants and men-at-arms, palmers and c^raftsmeu, friars 
and monks, black, white, and gray, and with almost all Fathei 
Shoveller had greeting or converse to exchange. He knew everybody, 
and had converse to exchange with all, on canons or crops, on war or 
wool, on the prices of pigs or pi-isoneis, on the news of the country 
side, or on the perilous innovations in learning at Oxford, which 
miglit, it was feared, even affect St. Marys’s College at Winchester. 

lie did not affect outlandish fishes himself, and dined upon pike, 
but observing the curiosity of his guests, he took good care to have 
them well supplied with grampus; also in due time with varieties 
of the pudding and cake kind whicli had never dawned on their 
forest bred imagination, and with a due proportion of good ale — the 
same over which the knight might be heard rejoicing, and lauding 
far above the Spanish or French wines, on which he said he had been 
half starved. 

Father Shoveller mused a good deal over his pike and its savory 
stuffing. He was not by any means an ideal monk, but he was 
equally far from being a scandal. He was the shrewd man of busi. 
ness and manager of his fralernity, conducting the farming opera 
tions and making all the bargains, foltowing his rule respectably ac 
cording to the ordinary standard of his time, but not rising to any 
spirituality, uud while iluly observing the fast day, as to the quaaly 


TTIE armourer’s PUENTIOES. 19 

of liis food, eating with the appetite of a man who lived in the open 
fields. 

But when their hunger was appeased, with many a fragment given 
to Spring, the young Birkenholts, wearied ot the endless talk (hat 
was exchanged over the tankard, began to grow restless, and after 
exchanging signs across Father Shoveller’s solid person, they simul- 
taneously rose, and began to thank him and say they must pursue 
their journey. 

“ How now, not so fast, my sons,” said the father: ” tarry a bit, 
1 have more to say to thee. Prayers and provender, thou knows! — 
I’ll come anon. So, sir. didst say yonder beggarly Flemings haggle 
at thy price for thy Southdown fleeces? Weight of dirt forsooth! 
Do not wm wash the sheep in the Poolhole stream, the purest water 
in the shire?” 

Manners withheld Ambrose from responding to Stephen’s hot im- 
patience, while the merchant in the sleek puce-colored coat discussed 
the Flemish wool market with the monk for a good halt hour longer. 

By this time the knight’s horses were brought into the yard, and 
the merchant’s men had made ready his palfrev, his pack horse being 
already on the way, the host’s son came round wilh the reckoning, 
and there was a general move. Stephen expected to escape, and 
hardly could brook the good-natured authority with which Fatlier 
Shovellei put Ambrose aside, when he would have discharged their 
share of the reckoning, and took it upon himself ‘‘ Said 1 not ye 
were my guests?” quoth he. ” We missed our morning mass, it will 
do us no harm to hear nones in the Minster. ” 

“ Sir, we thank you, but we should be on our way,” said Am 
brose, incited by Stephen’s impatient gestures. 

‘‘ Tut, tut. Fair and softly, my son, or more haste may be worse 
speed. Methought ye had somewhat to show me.” 

Stephen’s youthful independence might chafe, but the habit of 
submission to authorities made liirn obediently follow the monk out 
at the back entrance of the inn, behind which lay the minster yard, 
the grand western front rising in front of them, and the buildings of 
St. Swithun’s Abbey extenaing far to their right. The hour was 
nearly noon, and the space was deserted, except for an old woman 
sitting at the great western doorway with a basket of rosaries made 
of nuts and of snail shells, and a workman or two employed on the 
bishop’s new reredos. 

” ISIow for thj'^ tokens,” said Father Shoveller. ” See, my young 
foresters, ye be new to the world. Take au old nnin’s counsel, anti 
never show, nor speak of such gear in au hostel. Mine host of the 
While Hart is an old gossip of mine, and indiflerent honest, but who 
shall say who might be within earshot.” 

Stefihen had a mind to say that he did not see why the meddlii g 
monk should wish to see them at all, aud Ambrose looked a little re- 
luctant, but Father Shoveller said in his good-humored way, ” As 
you please, young sirs. ’Tis but an old man’s wish to see whether 
he can do aught to help you, that you be not as lambs among 
wolves. Mayhap ye deem ye can walk into London town aud that 
the first man you meet can point you to your uncle — Randall call ye 
him? — as readily as 1 could show you my brother, Thomas Shoveller 
of Cranbury. But you are just as like to m^et with some knave who 


20 THE AEMOUREK’s PRENTICES. 

might cozen you of all you have, or mayhap a beadle might take 
you up for vagabonds, and thrust you in the stocks, or ever you get 
to Loudon town, so 1 would fain give you some commendation, an 
1 knew to whom to make it, and an ye be not too proud to take it.” 

‘‘You are but too good to us, sit, ” said Ambrose, quite conquered, 
though Stephen only halt believed in the ditnculties. The lather 
took them within tl>e west door of the minster, and looking up and 
down the long arcade of the southern aisle to see that no one is 
watching; he inspected the tokens, and cross-examined them on their 
knowledge of their uncle. 

His latest gitt, the rosary, had come by the hand of Friar Hurst, 
a begging Minorite of Southampton, who had it from another of his 
order at Winchester, who had received it from one of the king’s 
archers at the Castle, with a message to Mistress Birkenholt that it 
came from her brother. Master liandall, who had good preferment in 
London, in the house of my Lord Archbishop of York, without 
whose counsel King Henry never stirred. As to the coming of the 
agate and the pouncet box, the minds of the boys were very hazy. 
They knew that the pouncet box had been convej’ed through the at- 
tendants of the Abbot of Beaulieu, but they were only sure that from 
that time the belief had prevailed with their mother that her brother 
was prospering in the house of the all-powerful Wolsey. The good 
Augustinian, examining the tokens, thought they gave color to that 
opinion. The rosarj" and agate might have been picked up in an 
ecclesiastic household, and the lid of the pouncet box was made of a 
Spanish coin, likely to have come through some of the attendants of 
Queen Katharine. 

” It hath an appearance,” he said. ” I marvel whether there be 
still at the Castle this archer who hath had speech with IVIaster Ran 
daii, for if ye know no more than ye do at present, ’tis seeking a 
needle in a bottle of hay. But see, here come the brethren that be 
to .sing Nones — sinner that I am, to have said no Hours since the 
morn, being letted with lawful business.” 

Again the unwilling Stephen had to submit. There was no feeling 
for tlie incongruous in those days, and reverence took very different 
directions from those in which it now shows itself, so that nobody 
had any objection to Spring’s pacing gravely with the others toward 
the Lady Chapel, where the Hours were sung, since the Choir wuis 
In the nands of workmen, and the sound of chipping stone could be 
heard jtrom it, where Bishop Fox’s elaborate lace-work reredos was 
in course oi erection. Passing the shrine of St. Swithun, and the 
grand tomb of Cardinal Beaufort, where his life colored effigy filled 
the boys with w’onder, they followed their leader’s example, and 
knc.t within the Lady Chapel, while the brief Latin service for the 
nintn hour was sung through by the canon, clerks and bo 3 ’’s. It 
really was the Sixth, but cumulative easy going treatment of the 
Breviary had made this the usual time tor it, as the name of noon 
stfi. testifies. The ooys’ attention, it must be confessed, was chiefly 
expended on the wonderfuv miracles of the Blessed Virgin in fresco 
on the w'altfe or the chapel, aL tending to prove that here was hope 
wi those whe said their Ave in apy extremity of fire or flood. 

Nones ended Father Shoveller with many a halt for greeting or 
ict' gossip, took the lads up the hiii toward the wide fortified space 


21 


THl? AEMOURER’S PEENTTCES. 

where the old Castle and royal hall of Henry of "Winchester looked 
down on the city, and after some friendly passages with the warder 
at the gate, Father Shoveller explained that he was in quest of some 
one recently come from caurt, of whom the striplings of his com- 
pany couid make inquiry concerning a kinsman in the household of 
imy Lord Archbishop of York. The warder scratched his head, and 
oethinking himself that Eastcheap Jockey was the reverend father’s 
name, summoned a horse-boy to call that worthy. 

* Where was he?” 

** Sitting over his pottle in the hall,” was the reply, and the monk, 
with a iaugh savoring little of asceticism, said he would seek him 
there, and accordingly crossed the court to the noble hall, with its 
lofty darl? marble columns, and the Round Table of King Arthur 
suspended at the upper end. The governor of the Castle had risen 
from Ins, meat long ago, but the garrison in the piping times of peace 
wou-c make their ration of ale last as far into the afternoon as their 
commanders would suffer. And half a dozen men still sat there, 
one or two snoring^ two playing at dice on a clear corner of the 
board, and another, a smart well-dressed fellow in a bright scarlet 
jerkin, laying down the law to a country bumpkin, who looked 
somewhat dazed. The first of these, was, as it appeared, Eirstcheap 
Jockey, and there was something both of the readiness and the im- 
pudence of the Londoner in his manner, when he turned to answer 
the question. He knew many in my Lord of York’s house — as 
many as a man was like to know where there was a matter of two 
hundred folk between clerics and soldiers, he had often crusheil a 
pottle with them. No, he had never heard of one called Randall, 
neither in hat nor cowl, but he knew more of them by face than by 
name, and more by by-name than surname or christened name. He 
was certainly not the archer who had brought a token for Mistress 
Birkenholt, and his comrades all avouched equal ignorance on the 
subject. Nothing could be gained there, and while Father Shoveller 
rubbed his bald head in consideration, Stephen rose to take leave. 

“ Look you here, my fair son,” said the monk. “ Starting at this 
hour, thouffh the days be long, you will not reach any safe halting 
place with daylight, whereas by lying a night in this good city, you 
might reach Alton to-morrow, and there is a home where the name 
of Brother Shoveller will win you free lodging and entertainment. ” 

“ And to night, good Father?” inquired Ambrose. 

“ That will I see to, if ye will follow me.” 

Stephen was devoured with impatience during the farewells in the 
Castle, but Ambrose represented that life good man was giving them 
much of his time, and that it would be unseemly and ungrateful to 
break from him, 

“ What matter is it of his? And why should he make us lose a 
whole day?” grumbled Stephen. 

“ What special gain would a day be to us?” sighed Ambrose. “ 1 
am thankful that any should take heed for irs.” 

‘‘ Ay, you love leading strings,” returned Stephen. “ Where is 
he going now? All out of our way!” 

Father Shoveller however as he went down the Castle hill, ex- 
plained that the Warden of St. Elizabeth’s Hospital was his friend, 
and knowing him to have acquaintauce among the clergy of St. 


oo 


THE armourer's PRENTICES. 


Paul’s, it would be well to obtain a letter of commendation from 
him, which might serve them in good stead in case they were dis- 
appointed of finding their uncle at once. 

It would be better for Spring to hav»a little more rest, thought 
Stephen, thus mitigating his own longing to escape from the monks 
and friars of whom Winchester seeined to be full. 

They had a kindly welcome in the pretty little college of St. Eliza- 
beth of Hungary, lying in the meadows between William of Wyke- 
liam’s College and the round hill of St. Catherine. The warden was 
a more scholarly and ecclesiastical-looking person than his friend, 
the good-natured Augustinian. After commending them to his care, 
and partaking of a drink of mead, the monk of Silkslede took leave 
of the youths, with a hearty blessing and advice to husband their 
few crowns, not to tell every one of their tokens, and to follow the 
counsel of the Warden of St. Elizabeth's, assuring them that if they 
turned back to the Forest, the}^ should have a welcome at Silkstede. 
Moreover he patted Spring pitifully, and wished him and his master 
well through the journey. 

St. Elizabeth’s College was a hundred yeais older than its neigh- 
bor, St. Mary’s, as was evident to practiced eyes by its arches and 
windows, but it had been so entirely eclipsed bj’" Wykeham’s foun- 
dation that the number of priests, students, and choir boys it was 
intended to maintain, had dwindled away, so that it now contained 
merely the warden, a superannuated priest, and a couple of big lads 
who acted as servants. There was an air of great quietude and cool- 
ness about the pointed arches of its tiny cl caster on that summer’s 
day, with the old monk dozing in his chair over the manuscript he 
thought he was reading, not far from the little table where the war- 
den was eagerly studying Erasmus’s “ Praise of Folly.” But the 
Birkenholts^^were of the age at which quiet means dullness, at least 
Slephen was, and the warden had pity both on them and on himself; 
and hearing joyous shouts outside, he opened a little door in the 
cloister wall, and revealed a multitude of lads with their black gowns 
tucked up ‘‘a playing at the ball ” — these being the scholars of St. 
IMary’s. Beckoning to a pair of elder ones, who were walking up 
and down more quietly, he consigned the strangers to their care, 
sweetening the introduction by an invitation to supper, for which he 
would gain permission from their warden. 

One of the young Wykehamites was sliy and churlish, and sheered 
oft from the brothers, but the other catechized them on their views 
of -becoming scholars in the college. He pointed out the cloister 
where the studies took place in all weathers, showed them the hall, 
the chapel, and the chambers, and expatiated on the chances of at- 
taining to New College. Being moreover a scholarly fellow, he and 
Ambrose fell into a discussion over the passage of Virgil, copied out 
on a bit of paper, which he was learning by heart. Some other 
scholars having finished their game and become aware of the pres- 
ence of a strange dog and two strange boys, proceeded to mob 
Stephen and Spring, whereupon the shy boy stood forth and declared 
that the Warden of St. Elizabeth’s had brought them in for an 
hour’s sport. 

Of course, in such close quarters, the rival warden was esteemed a 
natural enemy, and went by the name of ” Old Bess,” so that his 


THE armourer’s PRENTrOES. 


23 


recommendation went worse than nothing, and a dash at Spring 
was made by the inhospitable young savages. Stephen stood to the 
defense in act to bo.x, and the shy lad stood by him, calling tor fair 
play and one at a time. Of course a fight ensued, Stephen and his 
champion on the one side, and two assailants on the other, till after 
a fall on either side, Ambrose’s friend interfered with a voice as 
thundering as the manly crack would permit, peace Avas restored, 
Stephen found himself free of the meads, and Spring was caressed 
instead of being tormented. 

Stephen was examined on his past, present, and future, aivicd for 
his forest home, and beguiled into magnificent accounts, not only of 
the deer that had fallen to his bow and the boars that had fallen to 
his father’s spear, but of the honors to which his uncle in the arch- 
bishop’s household would prefer him — for he viewed it as an abso- 
lute certainty that his kinsman was captain among the men-at-arms, 
whom he endowed on the spot, with scarlet coats, faced with black 
velvet, and silver medals and chains. 

Whereat one of the other boj's was not behind in telling how his 
father was pursuivant to my Lord Duke of Norfolk, and never went 
abroad save with silver lions broidered on back and breast, and 
trumpets going before; and another dwelt on the splendors of the 
mayor and aldermen of Southampton with their chains and cups of 
gold. Stephen felt bound to surpass this with the last report that 
my Lord of York’s men rode Flemish steeds in crimson velvet hous- 
ings, passmented with gold and gems, and of course his uncle had 
the leading of them. 

“ Who be thine uncle?” demanded a thin, squeaky voice. ” 1 
have brothers likewise in my Lord of York’s meine.” 

“Mine uncle is Captain Henry Randall, of Shirley,” quoth 
Stephen magnificently, scornfully surveying the small projwrtions 
of the speaker. ‘‘ What is thy brother?” 

” Head turnspit,” said a rude voice, provoking a general shout of 
laughter; but the boy stood his ground, and said hotly: ” lie is page 
to the comptroller of my lord’s household, and waits at the second 
table, and i know every one of the captains.” 

“ He’ll say next he knows every oneof the Seven Worthies, ’’cried 
another boy, for Stephen was becoming a popular character. 

” And all the paladins to boot. Come on, little Rowley,” was the 
cry. 

“ 1 tell you my brother is page to the comptroller of the household, 
and my mother dwells beside the Gate House, and I know every 
man of them,” insisted Rowley, waxing hot. ” As for that forest 
savage fellow’s uncle being captain of the guard, ’tis more like that 
he is inv lord’s fool, Quipsome Hal!” 

Whereat there rvas a cry, in which were blended exultation at the 
hit, and vituperation of the hitter. Stephen flew forward to avenge 
the insult, but a big bell was beginning to rinj^ a whole wave of 
black gowns rushm lo obey it, sweeping little Rowley awa}' with 
them ; and Stephen found himself left alone with his brother and the 
two lads who had been invited to St. Elizabeth’s, and wJio now re- 
paired thither with them. 

The supper party in the refectory w'as a small one, and the rule of 
the fouu(hition limited the mCal to one dish and a pittance, but the 


24 


THE AKMOURER’s PRENTICES. 


dish was ot savory eels, and the warden’s good nature had added to 
it some cates and comfits in consideration of his youthful guests. 

After some conversation with the elder Wykehamist, the warden 
called Ambrose and put him through an examination on his attain- 
ments, which proved so satisfactory, that it ended in an invitation to 
the brothers to fill two of the empty scholarships of the college of the 
dear St. Elizabeth. It wtvs a good offer, and one that Ambrose 
would tain have accepted, but Stephen had no mind for the cloister 
or for learning. 

The warden had no doubt that he could be apprenticed- in the cily 
of Winchester, since the brother at home had in keeping a sum suffi- 
cient for the fee. Though the trade ot “ capping ” had fallen off, 
there svere still good substantial burgesses who would be willing to 
receive an active lad of good parentage, some being themselves of 
gentle blood. Stephen, however, would not brook the idea. “ Out 
upon you, Ambrose!” said he, ” to desire to bind your owm brother 
to base mechanical arts.” 

‘‘ ’Tis what Nurse Joan held to be best for us both,” said Am- 
brose. 

‘‘ Joan! Yea, like a woman, who deems a man safest when he is 
a tailor, or a perfumer. An you be minded to stayhei-e with a black 
gown and a shaven crown, 1 shall on with Spring and come to pre- 
ferment. Maybe thou’lt next hear ot me when 1 have got some fat 
canonry for thee.” 

” Nay, 1 quit thee not,” said Ambrose. ” If thou fare forward 
so do 1. But 1 would thou couldst have brought thy mind to rest 
here.” 

” What! wouldst thou be content with this worn-out place, with 
more churches than houses, and more empty houses than full ones? 
No! let us on where there is something doing! Thou wilt see that 
my Lord of York will have room for the scholar as well as the man- 
at-arms.” 

So the kind offer was declined, but Ambrose was grieved to see 
that the warden thought him foolish, and perhaps ungrateful. 

Nevertheless the good man gave them a letter to the Reverend 
Master Alworthy, singing clerk at St. Paul’s Cathedral, telling Am- 
brose it might serve them in case they failed to find their uncle, or 
if my Lord of York’s household should uot be in town. He likewise 
gave them a recommendation which would procure them a night’s 
lodging at the Grange, and after the morning’s mass and meat, sped 
them on their way with his blessing, muttering to himself, ‘‘that 
elder one micht have been the staff of mine age! Pity on him to be 
lost in the great and evil city. Yet ’tis a good lad to follow that 
fiery spark his brother. Tanquam agnus later lupos. Alack!” 

CHAPTER IV. 

A hero’s fall,. 

“ These four came all afront and mainly made at me. I made no more ado, 
but took their seven points on my target— thus.”— Shakespeare. 

The journey to Alton was eventless. It w’as slow, for the day 
was a broiling one, and the jmung foresters missetl their oaks and 
beeches, as they toiled over the chalk ‘downs that rose and sunk in 


THE AEMOURER’s PREXTrOES. 


25 


endless succession; though they would hardly have slackened their 
pace if it had not been for poor old Spring, who was sorely distressed 
by the heal and the want of water on the downs. Every now and 
then he lay down, panting distressfully, with his tongue hanging 
out, and his young masters always waited for him, often themseives 
not sorry to rest in a fragment of shade from a solitarj' thorn or 
juniper. 

The track was plain enough, and there were hamlets at long inter- 
vals. Flocks of sheep fed on the short grass, but there was no ap- 
proaching the shepherds, as they and their dogs regarded Spring as 
an enemy, to be received with clamor, stones and teeth, in spite of 
the dejected looks which might have acquitted him of evil inteu- 
tions. 

The travelers reached Alton in the cool of the evening, and were 
kindly received by a monk, who had charge of a grange just outside 
the little town, near one of the springs of the River Wey. 

The next day’s journey was a pleasanter one, for there was more 
of wood and heather, and they had to skirt round the marshy borders 
of a great sheet of w^ater. Spring was happier, being able to stop 
and lap whenever he would, and the w'hole scene was less unfriendly 
to them, but they scarcely made speed enough, for they were still 
among tall whins and stiff scrub of heather when the sun began to 
get low, gorgeously lighting the tall plumes of golden broom, and 
they had their doubts whether they might not be off the track, but 
in such weather there was nothing alarming in spending a night out 
of doors, if only they had something for supper. Stephen took a 
bolt from the purse at his girdle, and bent his crossbow, so as to be 
ready in case a rabbit sprung out, or a duck flew up from the 
marshes. 

A small thicket of trees was in sight, and they were making for 
it, wdien sounds of angry voices "were heard, and Spring, bristling up 
the mane on his neck, and giving a few premonitory fierce growls 
like thunder, bounded forward as though he had been seven years 
younger. Stephen darted after him, Ambrose rushed after Stephen, 
and breaking through the trees, they beheld the dog at the throat of 
one of three men. As they came on the scene, the dog was torn 
down and hurled aside, giving a Howl of agony, which infuriated his 
master. Letting fly his crossbow bolt full at the fellow’s face, he 
dashed on, reckless of odds, waving his knotted stick, and shouting 
with rage. Ambrose, thouarh more aware of the madness of such 
an assault, still hurried to his support, and was amazed as well as 
relieved to find -the charge effectual. Without waiting to return a 
blow, the miscreants took to their heels, and Stephen, seeing nothing 
but his dog, dropped on his knees beside the quivering creature, 
from whose neck blood was fast pouring. One glance of the faith- 
ful wistful eye, one feeble movement of the expressive tail, and 
Spring had made his last farewell ! That was all Stephen was con- 
scious of, but Ambrose could hear the cry, “ Good sirs, good lads, 
set me free!” and was aware of a portly form bound to a tree. As 
he cut the rope with his knife, the rescued traveler hurried out 
thanks and demands— “ Where are the rest of youV” and on reply 
that there were no more, proceeded, “ Then we must on, on at once, 
or the villains will return! They must have thought you had a band 


2G THE armourer’s prextices. 

of hunters behind you. Two furloncs hence, and we shall be safe 
in the hostel at Dogmersfield. Come on, my boy,” to Stephen, 
” the brave bound is quite dead, more’s^the pity. Thou cansl do no 
more for him, and we shall soon be in his case if Ave dally here.” 

I cannot, cannot leave him thus,” sobbed Stephen, who had the 
loving old head on his knees. ” Ambrose! stay, we must bring 
him. There, his tail wagged! If the blood were stanched — ” 

‘‘Stephen! Indeed he is stone dead! Were he our brother we 
could not do otherwise,” reasoned Ambrose, forciblj' dragging his 
brother to his feet. ‘‘ Go on we must. Wouldst have us all 
slaughtered for his sake? Come! The rogues will be upon us 
anon. Spring saved this good man’s life. Undo not his w'ork. 
See! Is yonder your horse, sir? This way, Stevie!” 

The instinct of catching the horse roused Stephen, and it was soon 
accomplished, for the steed, was a plump, docile, city-bred palfrey, 
Avilh dapple-gray flanks like well stufled satin pincushions, by no 
means resembling the shaggy forest ponies of the boy’s experience, 
but quite astra}' in the heath, and ready to come at the master’s 
Avhistle, and call of ‘‘ Soh! soh! now Poppet!” Stephen caught the 
bridle, and Ambrose helped the burgess into the saddle. ‘‘ Noav, 
cood boys,” he said, ‘‘ each of you lay a hand on my pommel. We 
can make good speed ere the rascals And out our scant numbers. ” 

‘‘ You would make better speed without us, sir,” said Stephen, 
hankering to remain beside poor Spring. 

*‘ D’ye think Giles Headley the man to leave two childen that have 
maybe saved my life as aa cII as my purse, to bear the malice of the 
rolibers?” demanded the burgess angrilj". “ That were like those 
fellows of mine who have showm their heels, and left their master 
strapped to a tree! Thou! Ihou! what’s thy name, that hast the 
most wit, bring thy brother, unless thou wouldst have him laid by 
the side of his dog.” 

Stephen was forced to comply, and run by Poppet’s side, though 
his eyes were so full of tears that he could not see his way, even 
when the pace slackened, and in the twilight they found themselves 
among houses and gardens, and thus in safetj', the lights of an inn 
shining not far off. 

A figure came out in the road to meet them, crying, ‘‘ IVIasterl 
master! is it you? and without scathe? Oh, the saints be praised!” 

‘‘ Ay, Tibbie, ’tis 1 and no other, thanks to the saints and to these 
brave lads! What, man, 1 blame thee not, 1 know thou canst not 
strike, but where be the rest?” 

*‘ lu the inn, sir. 1 strove to call up the hue and cry to come to the 
rescue, but the cowardly hinds were afraid of the thieves, and not 
one Avould come forth.” 

‘‘ 1 Avish they may not be in league with them,” said Master Head- 
ley. ‘‘ See! 1 AV'as delivered — ay, and in time to save my purse, by 
these twain, and their good dog. Are ye from these parts, my fair 
lads?” 

‘‘ We be journeying from the New Forest to London,” said Am- 
brose. ‘‘ The poor dog heard the tumult, and leaped to your aid, 
sir, and we made after him.” 

” ’Twas the saints sent him!” was the fervent answer. ‘‘ And ” 
(with a lifting of the cap) ‘‘ 1 hereby vow to St. Julian a hound of 


THE ARMOURERS PRENTICES. 


27 

solid bronze a toot in length, with a collar ot silver, to his shrine in 
8t. Faith’s, in token of inj' deliverance in bod}"^ and goods! To Jjon- 
doii are ye bound? Then will we journey on together!” 

They were by this time near the porch of a large country hostel, 
from the doors and large bay window of which light streamed out. 
And as the casement was open, those without could both see and 
hear all that .was passing within. 

The table wjis laid for supper, and in the place ot honor sat a 
youth of some seventeen or eighteen years, gayly dressed, with a lit- 
tle feather curling over his crimson cap, and thus discoursing: 

” Yea, my good host, two of the rogues bear my tokens besides 
him whom 1 felled to the earth. He came on at me with his sword, 
but 1 had my point ready for him ; and down he went before me like 
an ox. Then came on another, but him 1 dealt with by the back 
stroke as used in the tilt-yard at Clarendon, ” 

“ 1 ‘trow we shall know him again, sir. Holy saints! to think 
such rascals should haunt so nigh us,” the hostess was exclaiming. 
” Pity for the poor goodman. Master Headley. A portly burgher 
was he, friendly of tongue and free of purse. I well remember him 
when he went forth on his way to Salisbury, little thinking, poor 
soul, that he is truly sped.” 

‘‘ 1 tell thee, good woman, I saw him go down before three of their 
pikes. What more could 1 do but drive my horee over the nearest 
rogue who was rifling him?” 

“ If he were still alive — which Our Lady grant — the knaves will 
hold him to ransom,” quoth the host, aS he placed a tankard on the 
table. 

“ 1 am afraid he is past ransom,” said the youth, shaking his head. 
” But an if he be still in the rogues’ hands and living, 1 will get me 
on to his hou.se in Cheapside, and arrange with his mother, to find 
the needful sum, as befits me, 1 being his heir and about to w'ed his 
daughter, lloweyer, I shall do all that in me lies to get the i>oor old 
seignior out of the hands of the rogues. Saints defend me!” 

‘‘ The poor old seignior is much beholden to thee,” said IVJaster 
Headley, advancing amid a clamor of exclamations from three or 
four serving men or grooms, one protesting that he thought his 
‘master was with him, anotlua that his horse ran away with him, 
one showing an arm which was actually being bound up, and the 
youth declaring that he rode oft to bring help. 

” Well wast" thou bringing it,” Master Headley answered. “I 
might still be standing bound like an eagle displayed, against yonder 
tiee, for aught you fellows recked.” 

‘‘Hay, sir, the odds — ” began the youth. 

‘‘ Odds! such odds as were put to rout — by what, deem you? 
These two striplings and one poor hound. Had but one ot 5mu had 
the heart of a sparrow, ye had not furnished a tale to be the laugh of 
the Barbican and Cheapside. Look well at them. How old be you, 
my brave lads?” 

‘‘ 1 shall be sixteen come Lammas day, and Stephen fifteen at 
IMartinmas day, sir,” said Ambrose; “ but verily we did naught. 
We could have done nought had not the thieves thought more were 
behind us.” 

‘‘ There are odds betw'ccn going forward 'and backward,” said 


28 


THE AEMOURER’s RREHTICES. 


Master Headley, dr3dy. “Ha! Art hurt? Thou bleedst,” he ex- 
claimed, laying his hand on Stephen’s shoulder, and drawing him to 
the light. 

V ’Tis no blood of mine, ’’said Stephen, as Ambrose likewise came 
to join in the examination. “It is my poor Spring’s. He took the 
coward’s blow! His was all the honor, and we have left him there 
on the heath!” And he covered his face with his hands. 

“ Come, come, my good child,” said JMaster Headley; “ we will 
back to the place by times to-morrow when rogues hide and honest 
men walk abroad. Thou shalt bury thine hound, as befits a good 
warrior, on the battle-field. 1 would fain mark his points for the 
effigy we will frame, honest Tibbie, for St. Julian. .And mark ye. 
fellows, thou godson Giles, above all, who ’tis that boast of their 
valor, and who ’tis that be modest of speech. Yea, thanks, mine 
host. Let us to a chamber, and give us water to wash avv ay soil of 
travel and of fray, and then to supper. Young masters, ye are my 
guests. Shame were it that Giles Headley let go further them that 
have, under Heaven and St. Julian, saved him in life, limb, and 
purse.” 

The inn was large, being the resort of many travelers from the 
souths often of nobles and knights riding to Parliament, and thus 
the brothers found themselves accommodated with a chamber, 
where they could prepare for the meal, while Ambrose tried to con- 
sole his brother by representing that, after all, poor Spring had died 
gallantly, and with far less pain than if he had suffered a wasting 
old age, besides being honored for ever by his effigy in St. Faith’s, 
wherever ihat might be, the idea which chiefly contributed to con- 
sole his master. 

The two boj'S appeared in the room of the inn looking so unlike 
the austy, blood stained pair who had entered, that Master Headley 
took a second glance to convince himself that they were the same, 
before beckoning them to seats on either side of him, saying that he 
must know more of them, and bidding the host load their trenchers 
well from the grand fabric of beef-pasty which had been set at the 
end of the board. The runawaj^s, four or five in number', herded 
together lower down, with a few travelers of lower degree, all ex- 
cept the jmuth who had been boasting before their arrival, and who 
retained his seat at the board, thumping it with the handle of his 
knife to show his impatience for the commencement of supper; and 
not far off sat Tibbie, the same who had hailed their arrival, a thin, 
slight, one-sided looking person, with a terrible red withered scar 
on one cheek, drawing the corner of his mouth awry. He, like 
Master Headley himself, and the rest of his party, were clad in red, 
guarded with white, and wore the cross of Si. George on the white 
border of tbeir flat crimson caps, being no doubt in the livery of 
their company The citizen himself having in the meantime drawn 
his conclusions from the air and gestures of the brothers, and their 
mode of dealing with their food, asked the usual question in an 
affirmative tone, “ Ye be of gentle blood, young sirs?” 

To which they replied by gtving their names, and explaining 
that they were journeying from the New Forest to find their uncle 
in the train of lire Archbishop of York. 

“ Birkenholt,” sard Tibbie, meditativelj'. “ He bcareth the vert. 


THE AKMOURER’s PRENTICES. 29 

a buck’s head proper, on a chief argent two arrows. Crest, a buck 
courant, piercetl in the gorge by an airow, all proper.” 

To which the brothers returned by displaying the handles of their 
knives, both of which bore the pierced and courant buck. 

” Ay, ay,” said the man. “ ’Twill be found in our books, sir. 
"We painted the shield and new crested the morion the first year of 
my prenliceship, when the Earl of Richmond, the late King Harry 
of blessed memory, had newly landed at Milford Haven.” 

” Verily,” said Ambrose, ‘‘our Uncle Richard Birkenholt -fought 
at Bosworth under Sir Richard Pole’s banner.” 

” A. fall and stalwart esquire, methinks,” said Master Headley. 
“ Is he the kinsman you seek?” 

” Not so, sir. We visited him at Winchester, and found him 
sorely old and with failing wits. We be on our way to our mother’s 
brother. Master Harry Randall.” 

‘‘ Is he clerk or layman? My Lord of York entertaiueth enow of 
both,” said Master Headley. 

” Lay, assuredly, sir,” returned Stephen; ‘‘ 1 trust to him to find 
me some preferment as page or tne pike.” 

‘‘ Know’st thou the man, Tibbie?” inquired the ma'ter. 

‘‘ Not among the men at arms, sir,” was the answer; ‘‘ but there 
may be a many of them whose right names we never hear. How- 
ever, he will be easily found if my Lord of York will be returned 
from Windsor with his train.” 

“ Then will we go forward together, my young Masters Birken- 
holt. lam not going to part with my doughty champions!” pat- 
ting Stephen s shoulder. ‘‘Ye’d not think that these lignt heeled 
knaves belonged to the brave craft of armorers?” 

” Certainly not,” thought the lads, whose notion of armorers was 
derived from the brawny blacksmith of Lyndhurst, who sharirened 
their boar spears and shod their horses. They made some kind of 
assent, and Master Headley went on. ” These be the times! This 
is what peace hath brought us to! I am called down to Salisbury to 
take charge of the goods, chattels, and estate of my kinsman, Robert 
Headley — saints rest his soul! — and to bring home yonder spark, my 
godson, whose indentures haye been made over to me. And 1 may 
not ride a mile after sunset without being set upon by a sort of rob- 
bers, who must have guessed over well what a pack of cowards they 
^d to deal with.” 

” Sir, ” cried the younger Giles, ‘‘1 swear to you that 1 struck 
right and left. 1 did all that man could do, but these rogues of 
serving men, they lied and dragged me along with them, and 1 
deemed you were of our company till w'e dismountetl.” 

‘‘ Did you so? JMethought anon you saw me go down with three 
pikes in my breast. Come, come, godson Giles, speech will not 
mend it! Thou art but a green town bred lad. a mother’s darling, 
and mayst be a brave man yet, only don t dread to tell the honest 
truth that you were afeard, as many a better man might be.” 

The host chimed in with tales of the thieves and outlaws who 
then, and indeed for many later generations, infested Bagshot heath, 
and the wild moorland tracts around. He seemed to think that the 
travelers had h.-i^ l , a hairbreadth escape, and that a few seconds’ more 


30 


THE armourer’s PREKTICES. 

delay might have revealed the weakness of the rescuers and have 
been fatal to them. 

However there was no danger so near the village in the morning, 
and somewhat to Stephen’s annoj’^ance, the whole place turned out 
to inspect the spot, and behold the burial of poor Spring, w ho was 
found stretched on the heather, just as he had been left the night 
before. He was interred under the stunted oak where Master Head- 
ley had been tied. While the grave was dug with a spade borrowed 
at the inn, Ambrose undertook to cut out the dog's name on the 
bark, but he had hardly made the first incision when Tibbie, the 
singed foreman, offered to do it for him, and made a much more 
sightly inscription than he could have done. ■ Master Headley’s 
sword was found honorably broken under the tree, and was reserved 
to form a base for his intended ex wto. He uttered the vow in due 
form like a funeral oration, when Stephen, with a swelling heart, 
had laid the companion of his life in the little grave, which was 
speedily covered in. 


CUAPTER Y. 

THE DRAGON COURT. 

“ A citizen 
Of credit and renown ; 

A trainband captain eke was he 
Of famous London town.” 

COWPER. 

In spite of his satisfaction at the honorable obsequies of his dog, 
Stephen Birkenholt would fain have been independent, and thought 
it provoking and strange that every one should want to direct his 
movements, and assume the charge of one so well able to take care 
of himself ; but he could not escape as he had done before from the 
AVarden of St. Elizabeth, for Ambrose had readily accepted the 
proposal that they should travel in Master Headley’s company, only 
objecting that they were on foot; on which the good citizen hired a 
couple of hackneys for them. 

Besides the two Giles Headleys, the party consisted of Tibbie, 
the scarred and withered foreman, tw’o grooms, and two serving- 
men, all armed with the swords and bucklers of which they had 
made so little use. It appeared in process of time that the two 
namesakes, besides being godfather and godson, w'ere cousins, and 
that Robert, the father of the younger one, had, after his apprentice- 
ship in the paternal establishment at Salisbury, served for a couple 
of years in the London workshop of his kinsman to learn the latest 
improvements in weapons. This had laid the foundation of a 
friendship w'hicii had lasted through life, though the London cousin 
had been as prosperous as the country one Had been the reverse. 
The provincial trade in arms declined with the close of the York 
and Lancaster ■wars. Men were not permitted to turn from one 
handicraft to another, and Robert Headley had neither aptitude nor 
resources. His wife was vain and thriftless, and he finally broke down 
irnder his difficulties, appointing by will his cousin to act as his execu- 
tor, and to take charge of his only son, who had served out half his 
time as apprentice to himself. There had been delay until the peace 


31 


THE ATlMOTTRETi’s PRENTICES. 

■with Prance had given the armorer some leisure for an expedition to 
Salisbury, a serious undertaking for a London burgess, who had little 
about him of the ancient northern weapon-smith, and had wanted 
to avail himself ot the protection of the suite of the Bishop of Salis- 
bury, returning from Parliament, lie had spent some weeks in dis- 
posing ot his cousin’s stock in trade, -which was far too antiquated 
for the London market; also of the premises, which were bought by 
an adjoining convent to extend its garden ; and he had divided the 
proceeds between the "widow and children. He had presided at the 
wedding of the last daughter, with whom the mother was to reside, 
and was on his way back to London with his godson, who had now 
become bis apprentice. 

Giles Vleadle}’’ the younger wms a fine tall youth, but clumsy and 
untrained in the use ot his limbs, and he rode a large, powerful 
brown horse, which brooked no companionship, lashing out with 
its shaggy hoofs at any of its kind that approached it, more especial ly 
at poor, plump, mottled Poppet. The men said he had insisted on 
retaining that, and no other, for his journey to London, contrary to 
all advice, and he was obliged to ride foremost, alone in the middle 
of the road; while JSIaster Headley seemed to have an immense 
quantity of consultation to carry on with his toieman, Tibbie, whose 
quiet-looking brown animal was evidently on the best ot terms with 
Popper. dayliaht Tibbie looked even more sallow, lean, and 
sickly, and Stephen could not help saying to the serving-man nearest 
to him, “ Can such a weakling verily be an ai’morer?” 

“ Yea, sir. Wry-mouthed Tibbie as they call him. was a sturdy 
fellow till he got a fall against the mouth ot a furnace, and lay ten 
months in St. Bartholomew’s Spital, scarce moving hand or loot. He 
cannot wield a hammer, but he has a cunning hand for gilding and 
colored devices, and is as good as Garter-king-at-arms himself for 
all bearings of knights and nobles.” 

“ As we heard last night,” said Stephen. 

” Moreover in the spital he learnt to write and cast accompts like a 
very scrivener, and the master trusts him more than any, except 
maybe Kit Smallbones, the head smith.” 

” What ■will Smallbones think of the new prentice?” said one of 
the other men. 

” Prentice! ”Iis plain enough what sort of prentice the jmuth is 
like to be -wdio beareth the name of a master with one only daugh 
ter.” 

An emphatic grunt was the only answer, while Ambrose pondered 
on the good luck ot some people, who had their future cut out for 
them with no trouble on their own part. 

This day’s ride was through more inhabited parts, and was 
esteemed less perilous. They came in sight of the Thames at Lam- 
beth, but Master Headley, remembering how ill his beloved Poppet 
had brooked the ferr.y, decided to keep to the course of the river by 
a causeway across Lambeth mareh, which was just passable in high 
and dry summers, and which conducted them to a raised road called 
Bankside, where they looked across to the towers of Westminster, 
and the Abbey in its beauty dawned on the imagination of Stephen 
and Ambrose. The royal standard floated over the palace, whence 
Miister Headley irerceived that the king w^as there, and augured that 


33 


THE AHMOUKER’s PRENTICES. 

my Lord of York’s meine would not be tar to seek. Then came 
broad green fields with young corn Rowing, or hay waving for the 
scythe, the tents and booths of May Fair, and the beautiful market 
cross in the midst ot the village ot Charing, while the Strand, im- 
mediately opposite, began to be fringed with great monasteries 
within their ample gardens, with here and there a nobleman’s castel- 
lated house and terraced garden, with broad stone stairs leading to 
the Thames. 

Barges and wherries plied up and down, the former often gayly 
canopied, and propelled by liveried oarsmen, all plying their arms in 
unison, so that the vessel looked like some brilliant many-limbed 
creature treading the water. Presently appeared the heavy walls in- 
closing the City itself, dominated by the tall openwork timber spire 
of St. Paul’s, with the four-square, four-tui-reted Tower, acting, as 
it has been well said, as a padlock to a chain, and the river’s breadth 
spanned by London I3ridge, a very street of houses built on the abut- 
ments. Now, Bankside had houses on each side of the road, and 
M'ry -mouthed Tibbie showed evident satisfaction, when they turned 
to cross the bridge, wfiere they had to ride in single file, not without 
some refractoriness on the part ot young Headley's steed. 

On they went, now along streets where each story of the tall 
horrses projected over the last, so that the gables seemed ready to 
meet, now beside Avails of convent gardens, now past churches, 
while the country lads felt bewildered with the numbers passing to 
and fro, and the air was full ot bells. 

Cap atier cap w as lifted in greeting to blaster Headley by burgess, 
artisan or apprentice, and many times did he draw Poppet's rein to 
exchange greetings, and receive congratulations on his return. On 
reaching St. Paul’s minster, he halted and bade the servants take 
home the horses, and tell the mistress, Avith his dutiful greetings, 
that he should be at home anon, and with guests. 

“We must e’en return thanks for our safe journey and great de- 
liverance,’’ he said to his young companions, and thrusting his arm 
into that of a russet-vested citizen, who met him at the door, he 
walked into the cathedral, recounting his adventure. 

The youths followed with some difficulty through the stream of 
loiterers in the nave, Giles the younger elboAving and pushing so that 
several of tfie crowd turned to look at him, and it was well that his 
kinsman soon astonished him by descending a stair into a crypt, with 
solid, short, clustered columns, jind fiigh-pitched vaulting, fitted up 
as a separate church, namely, that of the parish ot St. Faith. The 
great Cathedral, having absorbed the site of the original church, had 
given this crypt to the parishioners. Here all was quiet and solemn, 
in marked contrast to the hubbub in “ Paul’s Walk,’’ above in the 
nave. Against the eastern pillar of one of the bays, Avas a little 
altar, and the decorations included St. .Julian, the patron of travel- 
ers, with his saltire doubly crossed, and his stag beside him. Little 
ships, trees Avith wonderful enameled representations of perils by 
robbers, field and flood hung thickly on St. Julian’s pfilar, and on 
the Avail and splay of the Avindow beside it; and here, after crossing 
himself. Master Headley rap-.dly repeated a Paternoster, and ratified 
his vow of presenting a bronze image of the hound to which he 
owed his rescue. One of tlm clergy' came up to register the vow, 


TTT.E AEMOT’^REr’s PRENTTCE3. P>3 

and the good armoicr proceeded to bespeak a mass of thanksgiving 
on tlienext morning, also ten for the sonl ol Master John Birkenholt, 
late verdurer of the New Forest in Hampshire— a mode of showing 
Ids gratitude which the two sons highly appreciated. 

Then, climbing vip the steps again, and emerging from the cathe- 
dral by the west door, the boys beheld a 'scene for rvhich their 
e.xperiences of Romsey, and even of Wincxiester, had by no means 
prepared them. It was five o’clock on a summer evening, so that 
the wdiole place w^as full of stir. Old women sat with baskets of 
rosaries and little crosses, or images of saints on the steps of the 
cathedral, while in the open space lieyond, more than one horse was 
displaying his paces, foi the benefit of some undecided purchaser, 
who had been chaffering for hours in Paul’s Walk. Merchants in 
the costume of their countries, Lombard, Spanisn, Dutch or 
French, were walking away in pairs, attended by servants, from 
their exchange, likewise in the nave. "Women, some alone, some 
protected by serving-men, or apprentices, were returning from their 
orisons, or, it might be, from their gossipings. Priests and friars, 
as usual, pervaded everything, and round the open space were gal- 
leried buildings with stalls beneath them, whence the holders were 
removing their w^ares for the night. The great octagonal struoturo 
of Paul’s Cross stood in the center, and just beneath the stone pul- 
pit, w'here the sermons were wont to be preached, stood a man with 
a throng round him, declaiming a ballad at the top of his sing-song 
voice, and causing much loud laughter by some ribaldry about 
monks and friars. 

Master Headley turned aside as quickly as he could, through 
Paternoster Row, which was full of stalls, where little black books, 
and larger sheets printed in black-letter, seemed the staple commod- 
ities, and thence to the burgess, keeping a heedful eye on his 
young companions among all his greetlnos, entered the broader space 
of Cheapside, where numerous prentice lads seemed to be playing at 
different sports after the labors of the day. 

Passing under an archway surmounteil b}' a dragon with shining 
scales. Master Headley entered a paved court-yard, where the lads 
started at the figures of twm knights in full armor, their lances in 
rest, and their horses wuth housings down to their hoofs, apparently 
about to charge any intruder. But at that. moment there w'as a 
shriek of joy, and out from the scarlef and azure petticoats of the 
nearest steed, there darted a little girl, crying, “Father! father!’’ 
and in an instant she was lifted in Master Headley’s arms, and Wiis 
clinging round his neck, while ho kisscnl and blessed her, and as he 
set her on her feet, he said, “ Here, Demret, greet thy Cou.<in Giles 
Headley, and these tw'o brave young gentlemen. Greet them like a 
courteorrs maiden, or they will think Iheo a little town mouse.’’ 

In truth the child had a pointed little face, and bright browit 
eyes, somewhat like a mouse, birt it was a ver}'^ sweet face that she 
lifted obediently to be kissed not only by the kinsman, but by the 
two guests. Her father irreantrrrre was answering with nods to the 
respecttirl welcomes of the workmen, who thronged out below, and 
their wives looking down from the galleries above; while Poppet 
and the other horses were being rubbed down after their journey. 

The ground-fioor of the buildings surrounding the oblong court 


34 


THE ae:n[outier’s prekttces. 

seemed to be entirely occupied by forges, ■workshops, ■vrarehouses, 
and stables. Above, were open railed galleries, ^ith outside stairs 
at intervals, giving access to the habitations of the work-people on 
three sides. The fourth, opposite to the entrance, had a much hand- 
somer broad stone stair, adorned on one side with a stone figure of 
the princess fleeing from the dragon, and on the other St. George 
piercing the monster’s open mouth with his lance, the scaly convo- 
lutions of the two dragons forming the supports of the hand-rail on 
either side. Here stood, cap in hand, showing his thick curly hair, 
and with open front, displaying a huge hairy_ chest, a giant figure, 
whom his master greeted as Kit Smallbones, inquiring whether all 
had gone •well during his absence. 

“ ’Tis time you were back, sir, tor there’s a great tilting match 
on hand for the Lady Mary’s wedding. Here have been half the 
gentlemen in the court after you, and my Lord of Buckingham sent 
twice for you since Sunday, and once for Tibbie Steelman, and his 
squire swore that if you were not at his bidding before noon to 
morrow, he would have his new suit of Master Hillyer,” 

“ He shall see me when it suiteth me,” said Mr. Headley, coolly. 
” He wotteih well that Hillyer hath none who can burnish plate 
armor like Tibbie here. ” 

“ IMoreover the last iron we had from that knave Mepham is 
naught. It works short under the hammer.” 

‘‘That shall be seen to. Kit. The rest of the budget to morrow. 
1 must on to my mother. ” 

For at the doorway, at the head of the stairs, there stood the still 
trim and active figure of an old woman, with something of the 
mouse likeness seen in her granddaughter, in the clo.se cap, high 
hat, and cloth dress, that sumptuary opinion, if not law, prescribed 
for the "burgher matron, a white apron, silver chain and bunch of 
keys at her girdle. Due and loving greetings passed between mother 
and son, after the longest and most perilous absence of IVIaster 
Headlej^’s life, and he then presented Giles, to whom the kindly 
dame offered hand and cheek, saying, “ Welcome, my young kins- 
man, your good father was well known and liked here. May you 
tread in his steps!” 

‘‘Thanks, good mistress,’ returned Giles. *'1 am thought to 
have a pretty taste in the fancy part of the trade. My Lord of 
Montagu — ” 

Before he could get any further. Mistress Headley was inquiring 
what was the rumor she had heard of robbers and dangers that had 
beset her son, and he was presenting the two young Birkenholts to 
her. ‘‘Brave boys! good boys,” she said, holding out her hands 
and kissing each according to the custom of welcome, ” you have 
saved my son for me, and this little one’s father for her. Itiss them, 
Denuet, and thank them.” 

” It was the poor dog,” said the child, in a clear little voice, 
drawing back with a certain quaint coquetting shyness, *‘ 1 would 
rather kiss him.” 

‘‘ Would that thou couldst, little mistress,” said Stephen. ‘‘ ]\Iy 
poor brave Spring!” 

‘‘Was he thine own? Tell me all about him,” said Dennet, 
somewhat imperiously. 


THE AE3I0UREK'S PKEXTICES. o5 

She jjtood between the two strangers, looking eagerly np with 
sorrowfully interested eyes, while Stephen, out of his full heart, 
told of his faithful comradeship with his hound from the infancy of 
both. Her father meanwhile was exchanging serious converse with 
her grandmother, and Giles, finding himself left in tire background, 
be"an, “ Come hither, pretty coz, and 1 will teli thee of my Lady of 
Salisbury’s dainty little hounds.” 

“ 1 care not for dainty little hounds,” returned Dennet, ” 1 want 
to hear of the poor faithful dog that Hew at the wicked robber.” 

‘‘ A mighty stir about a mere chance,” muttered Giles. 

‘‘ 1 know what you did,” said Dennet, turning her bright brown 
eves full upon him. ” You took to your heels.” 

Her look and little nod were so irresistibly comical that the two 
brothers could not help laughing; wheieupon Giles Headley turned 
upon them in a passion. 

‘‘ What mean ye by this insolence, you beggars’ brats picked up 
on the heath?” 

“Better bom than thou, braggart and coward that Ihou art!” 
broke forth Stephen, while Haster Headley exclaimed, “ How now, 
lads, no brawling here.” 

Three voices spoke at once. 

“ They were insolent.” 

“ He reviled our birth.” 

“Father! they did but laugh when 1 told Cousin Giles that he 
took to his heels, and he must needs call them beggars’ brats picked 
up on the heath.” 

“ Ha! ha! wench, thou art woman enough already to set them 
together by the ears,” said her father, laughing. “ See here, Giles 
Headle}', none who bears my name shall insult a stranger on my 
hearth. ’ ’ 

Stephen however had stepped forth holding out his small stock of 
coin, and saying, “ Sir, receive for our charges, and let us go to 
the tavern we passed, anon.” 

“ How now, bo 3 ^ Said 1 not ye were my guests?” 

“ Yea, sir, and thanks; but we can give no cause for being called 
beggars nor beggars’ brats. ” 

“ What beggary is there in being guests, my young gentleman?” 
said the master of the house. “ If any one were picked up on the 
heath, it was I. We owned you for gentlemen of blood and coat 
armor, and thy brother there cau tell thee that ye have no rigid to 
put an afiront on me, your host, because a rude prentice from a 
country town hath not learned to rule his tongue.” 

Giles scowled, but the armorer spoke with an authority that im- 
posed on all, and Stephen submilted, while Ambrose spoke a few 
words of thanks, after which the two brothers were conducted by 
an external stair and gallery to a guest chamber, in vshich to pre- 
pare for supper. 

The room was small but luxuriously filled beyond all ideas of the 
young foresters, for it was hung with tapestiy, representing the his- 
tory of Joseph, the bed was curtained, there was a carved chest tor 
clothes, a table and a ewer and basin of bright brass with the 
armorer’s mark upon it, a twist in which the letter H and the 
dragon’s tongue and tail were ingeniously blended. The city was 


3G THE armourer’s PRENTICES. 

far in advance of the country in all the arts of life, and only the 
more magnificent castles and abbeys, which the boys had never seen, 
possessed the amount of comforts to Ire found in the dwellings of 
the superior class of Londoners, Stephen was inclined to look with 
contempt upon the effeminacy of a churl merchant. 

“ No churl,” returned Ambrose, ‘‘ if manners maketh man, as 
we saw at Winchester,” 

■” Then what do they make of that cowardly clown, his cousin?” 

Ambrose laughed, but said, “ Prove we our gentle blood at least 
by not brawling with the fellow. Master Headley will soon teach 
him to know his place ” 

“ That will matter naught to us. To morrow shall we be •with 
our Uncle Hal. It only wish his lord was not of the ghostly sort, 
but perhaps he may prefer me to some great knight’s service. But 
oh’ Ambrose, come and look. See! The fellow they call Small- 
bones is come out to the fountain in the middle of the court with a 
bucket in each hand. Look! Didst ever see such a giant? He is 
as big and brawny as Ascapart at the bar-gate at Southampton. See! 
he ;ifts that big pail full and brimming as though it were an egg- 
shell See his arm’ ’T were good to see him wield a hammer! 1 
must look into his smithy before going forth to-morrow. ” 

Stephen clinched his fist and examined his muscles ere donning 
his best mourning jerkin, and could scarce be persuaded to com- 
plete his toilet, so much was he entertained with the comings and 
goings in thecdurt, a little world in itself, like a college quadrangle. 
The day's work was over the forges out, and the smiths ■v\*ere loung- 
ing about at ease, one or two sitting on a bench under a large elm 
tree beside the central wall, enjoying each his tankard of ale. A 
few more were watching Poppet being combed down, and convers- 
ing with the newly-arrived grooms. One was carrying his little 
child in Ms arms, and a young man and maid, sitting on the 
tow wali round the well, seemed to be carrj-ing on a courtship over 
the pitcher that stood waiting to be filled. Two lads were playing 
at skitties. children were running up and down the stairs and along 
the wooden galleries, and men and women went and came by the 
entrance gateway between the two effigies of knights in armor. 
Some were servants bringing helm or gauntlet for repair, or taking 
the like away Some might be known .by their fiat caps to be ap- 
prentices, and two substantial burgesses walked in togetlier, as if to 
greet Masteir Headley on his return. Immediately after a man-cook 
appeared with white cap and apron, bearing aloft a covered dish 
surrounded by a steamy cloud, followed by other servants bearing 
other meats a big bell began to sound, the younger men and ap- 
jirentlcee gathered together and the brothers descended the stairs, 
and entered by the big door into tlie same large hall where they had 
been received. The spacious hearth was full of green boughs, with 
a oeaupot of wild rose honeysuckle, clove pinks and gilTiflowers ; 
the lowci part of the walls wiis hung with tapestry representing 
the adventures of St. George, the mullioned windows had their 
uppersquares filled with glass, bearing the shield of the City of Lon- 
don. tha.' of the Armorers' Company the rose and portcullis of the 
king the pomegranates of Queen Katharine, and other like devices, 
ethers, belonging to the Lancastrian kings, adorned the pendants 


THE armourer’s PRENTICES. 37 

from the handsome open roof, and the front of a gallery for 
musicians which crossed one end of the hall in the taste of the times 
of Henry V and Whittington., 

Far more interesting to the hungry travelers was it that the long 
fablG, running the whole breadth of the apartment, was decked with 
snow)’- linen, trenchers stood ready with horns, or tankards beside 
them, and loaves of bread at intervals, while the dishes were being 
placed on the table. The master and his entire establishment took their 
meals ogether, except the married men, who lived in the quadrangle 
with their families There was no division by the salt-cellar, as at the 
tables of the nobles and gentry, but the master, his family and guests 
occupied the center, with the hearth behind them, where the choicest 
of the viands were placed; next after them were the places of the 
journeymen according to seniority, then those of the apprentices, 
household servants, and stable men, but the apprentices had to assist 
the serving men in waiting on the master and his party before sitting 
down themselves. There was a dignity and regularity about the 
whole, which could not fail to impress Stephen and Ambrose with the 
w'eight and importance of a London burgher, warden of the Armor- 
ers’ Company, and alderman of the Ward of Cheap. There were 
carved chairs for himself, his mother and the guests, also a small Per- 
sian carpet extending from the hearth beyond their seats. This arti- 
cle filled the two foresters with amazement. To put one’s feet on 
what ought to be a coverlet! They would not have stepped on it, 
had they not been kindly summoned by old Mistress Headley to take 
theii places among the company, which consisted, besides the fam- 
ily, of the two citizens who had entered, and of a priest who had 
likewise dropped in to welcome Jdaster Headley’s return, and had 
been invited lo stay to supper. Young Giles, as a matter of course, 
placed himself amongst them, at which there were black looks and 
whispers among the apprentices, and even Mistress Headley wore an 
air of amazement. 

Mother,” said the head of the family, speaking loud enough for 
all to hear, “ you will permit our young kinsman to be jfiaced as our 
guest this evening. To-morrow he wiU act as an apprentice, as we 
all have done in our time.” 

” 1 never did so at home!” cried Giles, in his loud hasty voice. 

‘‘ 1 trow not,” dryly observed one of the guests. 

Giles however went on muttering while the priest was pronounc- 
ing a Latin grace, and thereupon the same burgess observed, 
‘‘ Never did 1 see it better proved that folk in the country give their 
sons no good breeding.” 

‘‘ Have patience with him, good Master Pepper,” returned Mr. 
Headley. “ He hath been an only son, greatly cockered by father, 
mother and sisters, but ere long he will learn what is befitting.” 

Giles glared round, but he met nothing encouraging. Little Den- 
net sat with open mouth of astonishment, her grandmother looked 
shocked, the household which had been aggrieved by his presump- 
tion, laughed at his rebuke, for there was not much delicacy in those 
days; but something generous in the gentle blood of Ambrose moved 
him to some amount of pity for the lad, who thus suddenly became 
conscious that the tie he had thought nominal at Salisbury, a mere 
preliminary to municipal rank, was here absolute subjection, and a 


38 


THE AEMOUKER’s PREXTICES. 

bondage whence there was no escape. His was the only face that 
Giles met which had any friendliness in it, but no one spoke, for 
manners imposed silence upon youth at table, except when spoken 
to; and there was general hunger enough pi evading to make Mis- 
tress Headley’s fat capon the most interesting contemplation for the 
present. 

The elders conversed, lor there was much for Master Headley to 
hear of civic affairs that had* passed in his absence of two months, 
also of all the comings and goings, and it was ascertained that my 
Lord Archbishop of York was at his suburban abode, Y'ork House, 
now Whitehall. 

It was a very late supper for the times, not beginning till seven 
o’clock, on account of the travelers, and as soon as it w as finished, 
and the priest and burghers had taken their leave. Master Headley 
dismissed the household to their beds, although daylight was scarcely 
departed. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A SUNDAY IN THE CITY. 

“ Tlie rod of Heaven has touched them all. 

The word from Heaven is spoken : 

Rise, shine and sing, thou captive thrall, 

Are not thy fetters broken?” 

Keble. 

On Sunday morning, when the young Birkenholts awoke, the 
whole air seemed full of bells from hundreds of church and minster 
steeples. The Dragon Court wore a holiday air, and there was no 
ring of hammers at the forges; but the men who stood about were 
iu holiday attire; and the brothers assumed their best clothes. 

Rreakfast was not a meal much accounted of. It was reckoned 
effeminate to require more than two meals a day, (hough, just as in 
the verdurer’s lodge at liome, there was a barrel of ale on tap with 
drinking horns beside it in the hall, and on a small round table m 
the window a loaf of bread, to which city luxury added a cheese, 
and a jug containing sack, wilh some silver cups beside it, and a 
pitcher of fair water. Master Headley, with his mother and daugh- 
ter was taking a morsel of these refections, standing, and in out-door 
gaiments, when the brothers appeared at about seven o’clock in the 
morning, 

“ Ha! that’s well,” quoth he, greeting them. “ No slugabeds, 1 
see. Will ye come with us to hear mass at St. Faith’s?” They 
agreed, and Master Headley then told them that if they would tarr}-- 
till the next day in searching out their uncle, they could have the 
company of Tibbie Steelman, w*ho had to see one of the captains of 
the guard about afi alteration of his corslet, and thus would have 
every opportunity of facilitating their inquiries for (heir uncle. 

The mass w^as an ornate one, though not more so than they were 
accustomed to at Beaulieu. Ambrose had his book of devotions, 
supplied by the good monks who had brought him up, and old Mrs. 
Headley carried something of the same kind; but these did not ne- 
cessarily follow the ritual, and neither quiet nor attention was re- 
garded as requisite in ‘'hearing mass.” Dennet, unchecked, was 


39 


THE AllMOUREIl’s PEENTICES. 

p\'clian,‘'in, 2 : flowers from liei Sunday posy with another little girl, 
and witlj hooded fingers carrying on in all innocence the satirical 
pantomiiue of Father Francis and Sister Catherine, and even Master 
Headley himself exchanged remarks with his friends, and returned 
greetings from burgesses and their wives while the celebrant priest’s 
voice droned on, and the choir responded — the peals of the organ in 
the minster above coming in at inappropriate moments, for there 
they were in a different part of High Mass, using the Liturgy pecul- 
iar to St. Paul’s. 

Thinking of last week at Beaulieu, Ambrose knelt meantime with 
his head buried in his hands, in an absorption of feeling that was not 
perhaps wholly devout, but which at any rate looked more like de- 
votion than the demeanor of any one around. When the Ite mUm 
est was pronounced, and all rose up, Stephen touched him and he 
rose, looking about bewildered. 

So please you, young sir, 1 can show you another sort of thing 
by and by,” said in his ear Tibbie Steelman, who had come in late, 
and marked his attitude. 

They went up from St. Faith’s, in a flood of talk, with all manner 
of people welcoming Master Headley after his journey, and thence 
came back to dinner, which w'as set out in the hall very soon after 
their return from church. Quite guests enough were there on this 
occasion to fill all the chairs, and Master Headley intimated to Giles 
that he must begin his duties at table as an apprentice, under the 
tuition of the senior, a tall young fellow of nineteen, by name Ed- 
mund Burgess. He looked greatly injured and disi'omfit.ed, aliove 
all when he saw his two traveling companions seated at the table — 
though far lower than the night before — nor would he stir from 
where he was standing against the wall to do the slightest service, 
although Edmund admonished him sharply that unless he bestirred 
himself it would be the worse for him. 

When the meal was over, and grace had been said, the boards 
w'ere removed from their trestles, and the elders drew r'ound the 
small table in the window with a flagon of sack and a plate of wastel 
bread in their midst to continue their discussion of weighty Town 
Council matters. Every one Was free to make holiday, and Edmund 
Burgess good-naturedly invited the strangers to come to Mile end, 
where there was to be shooting at the butls, and a match at single- 
stick was to come off between Kit Smallbones and another giant, 
who was regarded as the champion of the brewer’s craft. 

Stephen w’as nothing loath, especially it he might take his own 
cross-bow; but Ambrose never had much turn for these pastimes and 
was in no mood for them. The familiar associations of the mass had 
brought the grief of orphanhood, homelessness, and uncertainty upon 
him with the more force. His spirit yearned after his father, and 
his heart was sick for his forest home. Moreover there was the duty 
incumbent on a good son of sa 3 ing his prayers for the repose of his 
father’s soul. He hinted as much to Stephen, who, boy-like, an- 
swered, ” O we’ll see to that when we get into ray Lord of York’s 
house. Masses must be plenty there. And 1 must see Smallbones 
floor the brewer.” 

Ambrose could trust his brother under the care of Edmund Burgess, 


40 


THE AHMOUEER’s PREHTICES. 

and resolved on a double amount of repetitions of tbe appointed in- 
tercessions for the departed. 

He was watching the party of youths set ofi, all except Giles 
Headley, who sulkily refused the invitations, betook himself to a 
window and sat drumming on the glass, while Ambrose stood lean- 
ing on the dragon balustrade, with his eyes dreamily following the 
meny lads out at the gateway. 

“ You are not for such gear, sir,” said a voice at his ear, and he 
saw the scathed face of Tibbie Steelman beside him. 

” Never greatly so, Tibbie,” answered Ambrose. ” And my heart 
is too heavy for it now.” 

“ Ay! ay, sir. So 1 thought when I saw you in St. Faith’s. 1 
have known what it was to lose a good father in my time.” 

Ambiose held out his hand. It was the first really sympathetic, 
word he had heard since he had left Nurse Joan. 

” ’Tis the week’s mind of his burial,” he said, half choked with 
tears. ‘‘ Where shall 1 find a quiet church where 1 may say his Be 
profundis in peace?” 

” Mayhap,” returned Tibiae, ” the chapel in the Pardon church- 
yard would serve your turn. ’Tis not greatly resorted to when mass 
time is over, when there’s no funeral in hand, and I oft go there to 
read my book in quiet on a Sunday afternoon. And then, if ’tis 
your will, 1 will take you to what to my mind is the best healing for 
a sore heart.” 

‘‘ Nurse Joan was wont to say the best for that was a sight of the 
true cross, as she once beheld it at Holy Rood church at Southamp- 
ton,” said Ambrose. 

“ And so it is, lad, so it is,” said Tibbie, with a strange light on 
his distorted features. 

So they went forth together, while Giles again hugged himself in 
his doleful conceit, marveling how a youth of birth and nurture 
could walk the streets on a Sunday with a scarecrow such as that! 

The hour was still early, there was a whole summer afternoon be- 
fore them; and Tibbie, seeing how much his young companion was 
struck with the grand vista of church towers and spires, gave him 
their names as they stood, though coupling them with short dry 
comments on the way in which their priests too often perverted them. 

The Cheap was then still in great part an open space, where the 
boys were playing, and a tumbler was attracting many spectators ; 
while the ballad singer of yesterday had again a large audience, who 
laughed loudly at every coarse jest broken upon mass-priests and 
friars. 

Ambrose was horrified at the stave that met his ears, and asked how 
such profanity could be allowed. Tibbie shrugged his shoulders, 
and cited the old saying, ” 1 he nearer the church” — adding, “ Truth 
hath a voice and will out.” 

” But surely this is not the truth?” 

“ ’Tis mightj’^ like it, sir, though it might be spoken in a more 
seemly fashion.” 

” What’s this?” demanded Ambrose. ” ’Tis a noble house. ” 

‘‘ That’s the bishop’s palace, sir — a man that hath much to an- 
swer for.” 


THE ARMOURERS PRENTICES. 


41 


“ Liveth he so ill a life then?” 

Not so. He is no scandalous liver, he would fain stifle all the 
voices that call for better things. Ay, you look back at yon ballad- 
monger! Great folk despise the like ot him, never guessing at the 
power there may be in such ribald stuff; while they would fain si- 
lence that which might turn men from their evil w'ays while yet 
there is time.” 

Tibbie muttered this to himself, unheeded by Ambrose, and then 
presently crossing the churchyard, where a grave was being filled 
up, with numerous idle children around it, he conducted the youth 
into a curious little chapel, empty now, but with the Ilost enthroned 
above the altar, and the trestles on which the bier had rested still 
standing in the narrow nave. 

It was intensely still and cool, a fit place indeed for Ambrose’s filial 
devotions, while Tibbie settled himself on the step, took out a little 
black book and became absorbed. Ambrose’s Latin scholarship 
enabled him to comprehend the language of the round of devotions 
he was reliearsing for the benefit of his father’s soul; but there w'as 
much repetition in them, and he had been so trained as to believe 
•their correct recital was much more important than attention to their 
spirit, and thus, while his hands held his rosary, his eyes were fixed 
upon the walls where was depicted the Dance of Death. In terrible 
repetition, the artist had aimed at depicting every rank or class in 
life as alike the prey ot the grisly phantom. Triple crowned pope, 
scarlet-hatted cardinal, mitered prelate, priests, monks, and friars of 
every degree, emperors, kings, princes, nobles, knights, squires, yeo- 
men, every sort of trade, soldiers of all kinds, beggars, even thieves 
and murderers, and, in like manner, ladies of every degree, from the 
queen and the abbess, down to the starving beggar, were each repre- 
sented as grappled with, and carried off by the crowned skeleton. 
There was no truckling to greatness. The bishop and abbot wnithed 
and struggled in the grasp of Death, while the miser clutched at his 
gold, and if there were some nuns, and some poor plowmen, w’ho 
willingly clasped his bony fingers and obeyed his summons joyfully, 
there were countesses and prioresses who tried to beat him off, or 
implored him to \vait. The infant smiled in his arms, but the mid- 
dle-aged fought against his scythe. 

The contemplation had a most depressing effect on the boy, whose 
heart was still sore for his father. After the sudden shock of such a 
loss, the monotonous repetition of the snatching away of all alike, in 
the midst ot their characteristic worldly employments, and the an- 
guish and hopeless resistance of most of them struck him to the heart. 
He moved between each bead to a fresh group; staring at it with 
fixed gaze, while his lips moved, in the unconscious hop(5 of some- 
thing consoling ; till at last, hearing some uncontrollable sobs, Tib- 
bie Steelman rose and found him crouching rather than kneeling be- 
fore the figure of an emaciated hermit, who was greeting the sum- 
mons ot the King of Terrors, with crucifix pressed to his breast, rapt 
countenance and outstretched arms, seeing only the Angel who 
hovered above. After some minutes of bitter weeping, Avhich 
choked his utterance, Ambrose, feeling a friemlly hand on his 
shoulder, exclaimed in a voice broken by sobs, ‘‘ Oh, tell me, where 
may 1 go to become an anchorite? There’s no other safety! I’ll 


42 


THE armourer’s PREKTICES. 

give all ray portion, and spend all my time in prayer for my father 
and the other poor souls in purgatory.” 

Two centuries earlier, nay, even one, Ambrose would have been 
encouraged to follow out his purpose. As it was, Tibbie gave a 
little dry cough and said, “ Come along with me, sir, and Til show 
you another sort of waJ^ ” 

“ 1 want no entertainment! ’’said Ambrose, I should feel only as 
if he,” pointing to the phantom, ” were at hand, clutching me with 
his deadly claw,” and he looked over his shoulder with a shudder. 

There was a box by the door to receive alms for masses on behalf 
of the souls in purgatory, and here he halted and felt for the pouch 
at his girdle, to pour in all the contents; but Steelman said, ‘‘ Elold, 
sir, are you free to dispose of your brother’s share, you who are 
purse-bearer for both?” 

” 1 would fain hold mj'^ brother to the only path of safety.” 

Again Tibbie gavn his dry cough, but added, ‘‘ He is not in the 
path of safety who bestows that which is not his own, but is held in 
trust. I were foully to blame if I let this grim portrayal so work on 
you as to lead you to beggar not only yourself, but your brother, 
with no consent of his.” 

For Tibbie was no impulsive Italian, but a sober-minded English- 
man of sturdv good sense, and Ambrose was reasonable enough to 
listen and only drop in a few groats which he knew to be his own. 

At the same moment, a church bell was heard, the tone of which 
Steelman evidently distinguished fiom all the others, and he lal the 
way out of the Pardon churchyard, over the space in front of St. 
Paul’s. JUany persons were taking the same route, citizens in gowns 
and gold or silver chains, their wives in tall pointed hats, craftsmen 
black gowned, scholar^ men with fur caps, but there was a much 
more scanty proportion of priests, monks, or friars than was usual 
in any popular as.semblage. Many of the better class of women 
carried folding stools, or had them carried by their servants as if 
they expected to sit and wait. 

•' Is there a procession toward? Ora relic to be displayed?” asked 
Ambrose, trying to recollect whose feast-day it might be. 

Tibbie screwed up his mouth in an extraordinary smile as he said, 
” Relic quotha, yea, the soot best relic there be of the Lord and 
IMaster of us all. ” 

‘‘ Methoiight the true Cross was always displayed on the high 
Altar,” said Ambrose, as all turned to a side aisle of the noble nave. 

‘‘Rather .say hidden,” muttered Tibbie. ‘‘Thou shalt have it 
disjilaycd, young sir, but neither in wood nor gilded shrine. See, 
here he comes who setteth it forth.” 

From the choir came, attended by half a dozen clergy, a small, 
pale old man, in the ordinary dress of a priest, with a square cap on 
his head. He looked spare, sickly, and wninlded, but the furrows 
traced lines of sweetness, his mouth was wonderfully gentle, and 
there was a keen brightness about his clear gray eye. Every one 
rose and made obeisance as he passed along to the stone stair leading 
to a pulpit projecting from one of the columns. 

Ambrose saw what was coming, tliougli he had only twice before 
heard preaching. The children ot the aute-refornuition were not 
culled upon to Iroai’ sermons; and the few exhortations given in Lent 


43 


THE ARMOURER*^ PRENTICES. 

to the monks of Beaulieu were so exclusively for the religious that 
seculars were not invited to them. So that Ambrose had only once 
heard a weary and heavy disox)urse there plentifully garnished with 
I^atin: and once he had stood among the throng at a wake at Mill- 
brook, tind heard a begging frair recommend the purchase of briefs 
of indulgence and the daily repetition of the Ave ISIaria by a series 
of extraordinaiy miracles for the rescue of desperate sinners, related 
so jocosely as to keep the crowd in a roar of laughter. He had 
laughed with the rest, but he could pot imagine his guide, with the 
stern, grave eyebrows, writhen features and earnest, ironical tone 
covering — as even he could detect — the deepest feeling,'enjoying such 
broad sirllies as tickled the slow merriment of village clowns and 
forest deer stealers. 

All stood tor a moment while the Pater Noster was repeated. Then 
the owners of stools sat down on them, some leaned on adjacent pil- 
lars, others curled themselves on the floor, but most remained on 
their feet as unwilling to miss a word, and of these were Tibbie 
Steelman, and his companion. 

Omnis qnifadt 'peccatum, sei’ms est peccati, followed by the ren- 
dering in English, “ Whosoever doeth sin is sin’s bond thrall.” The 
words answered well to the ghastly delineations that seemed stamped 
on Ambrose’s brain and which followed him about into the nave, so 
that he felt himself in the grasp of the cruel flend, and almost expect- 
ed to feel the skeleton claw of Death about to hand him over to tor- 
ment. Pie expected the consolation of hearing that a daily ” Hail 
Mary ” persevered in through the foulest life, would obtain that beams 
should be arrested in their fall, ships fail to sink, cords to hang, till 
such confession had been made as should insure ultimate salvation, 
after such a proportion of the flames of purgatory as masses and 
praj'ers might not mitigate. 

But his attention was soon caught. Sinfulness stood before him 
not as tjje liability to penalty for transgressing an arbitrary rule. Put 
as a taint to the entire being, mastering the will, perverting the 
senses, forging fetters out of habit, so as to be a loathsome horror 
paral^^zing and enchaining the whole being and making it into the 
likeness of him who brought sin and death into the world. The 
horror seemed to grow on Ambrose, as his boyish faults and errors 
rushed on his mind, and he felt pervaded by the contagion of the 
pestilence, abhorrent even to himself. But behold, what w'as he 
hearing now? “ The bond thrall abideth not in the house for ever, 
but the Son abideth ever. Si ergo Filim Itberavii, verh Uberi eritis. If 
the Son should make you free, then are ye free indeed.” And for 
the first time was the true liberly of the redeemed soul comprehensi- 
bly proclaimed to the young spirit that had begun to yearn tor some- 
thing beyond the outside. Light began to shine through the outward 
ordinances, the Church; the world, life and death were revealed as 
something absolutely new; a redeeming, cleansing, sanctifying powder 
W’as made know’n, and seemed to inspire him with a new life, joy, 
and nope. He was no longer feeling liimself necessarily crushed by 
the fetters of death, or only delivered from absolute peril by a mech- 
anism that had lost its heart, but he could enter into the glorious 
liberty of the sons of God, in process of being saved, not in sin but 
from sin. 


44 THE armourer’s PRENTICES. 

11 was an era in his life, and Tibbie beard him sobbing, but with 
very diflerent sobs from those in the Pardon Chapel. VVhen it was 
over, and the blessing given, Ambrose looked up frorn the hands 
which had covered his face with a new radiance in his eyes, and 
drew a long breath. Tibbie saw that he was like one in another 
world, and gently led him away. 

“ Who is he? What is he? Is he an angel from the other world?” 
demanded the boy, a little wilcjly, as they neared the southern door. 

“ If an angel be a messenger of God, I trow he is one,” said Tib- 
bie. ” But men call him Dr. Colet. He is Dean of St. Paul’s min- 
ster, and dwelleth in the house you see below there.” 

” And are such words as these to be heard every Sunday?” 

‘‘On most Sundays doth he preach here in the nave to all sorts of 
folk.” 

‘‘ 1 must — 1 must hear it again!” exclaimed Ambrose. 

‘‘Ay, ay,” said Tibbie, regarding him with a well-pleased face. 
‘‘You are one with whom it works.” 

‘‘ Every Sunday!” repeated Ambrose. ‘‘ Why do not all — jmur 
master arid all these,” pointing to the holiday crowds going to and 
fro, ‘‘ why do they not all come to listen?” 

‘‘ IMaster doth come by times,” said Tibbie, in Ihe tone of irony 
that was hard to understand. ‘‘ lie owneth the dean as a rare 
preacher.” 

Ambrose did not try to understand. He exclaimed again, panting 
as if his thoughts were too strong for his words — ‘‘ Loyou, that 
preacher — dean call ye him? — putteth a soul into what hath hitherto 
been to me but a dead and empty framework. ” 

Tibbie held out his hand almost unconsciou.sly and Ambro.se 
pressed it. Man and boy alike they had felt the electric current of 
that truth, which, suppressed and ignored among man’s inventions, 
W!vs coming as a new revelation to many, and was already beginning 
to convulse the Church and the world. 

Ambrose’s mind was made up on one point. Whatever he did, 
and wherever he went, he felt the doctrine he had just heard as 
needful to him as vital air, and he must be within reach of it. This, 
and not the hermit’s cell was what his instinct craved. He had al- 
ways been a studious, scholarly boy, supposed to be marked out for 
a clerical life because a book wjis more to him than a bow, and he 
had been easily trained in good habits and practices of devotion; but 
all in a childish manner, without going beyond simple receptiveness, 
until the experiences of the last week had made a man of him, or 
more truly, the Pardon Chapel and Dean Colet’s sermon had made 
him a new being with the realities of the inner life opened before 
him. 

His present feeling was relief from the hideous load he had felt 
while dwelling on the Dance of Death, and therewith general good- 
will to all men, which found its first issue in compassion for Giles 
Headley, whom he found on his return seated on the steps— moody 
and mis(!rable. 

‘‘ Would that you had been with us,” said Ambrose, sitting down 
beside him on the step. ‘‘ Never have 1 heard such words jis to- 
day.” 

‘‘ i would not be seen in the street with that scarcecrow,” mur- 


TnE armouhek’s pre^ttioes. 45 

muved Giles. “ If my mother could have guessed that he was to be 
set over me, 1 had never come here.” 

“ Surely you knew that he was foreman.” 

‘‘ Yea, but not that 1 should be under him — I wdiom old Giles 
vowed should be as his own son— 1 that am to wed yon little brown 
moppet, and be master here! So, forsooth,” he said, ‘‘now he 
treats me like any common low-bred prentice.” 

‘‘ Nay,” said Ambrose, ‘‘ an if you were his son, he would still 
make you serve. It’s the way with all craftsmen— 5’^ea and with gen- 
tlemen’s sons also. They must be pages and squires ere they can be 
knights,” 

‘‘ It never was the way at home. 1 was only bound prentice to 
my father tor the name of the thing, that 1 might have (he freedom 
of the city, and become head of our liouse.” 

‘‘ But how could you be a wise master without learning the 
craft?” 

‘‘ What are journeymen for?” demanded the lad. ‘‘ Had 1 known 
how Giles Headley meant to serve me, he might have gone whistle 
for a husband for his wench. 1 would have ridden in my Lady of 
Salisbury’s train.” 

‘‘ You might have had rougher usage there than here,” said Am- 
brose. ‘‘ Master Headley lays nothing on you but wiiat he has him- 
self proved. 1 would 1 could see you make the best of so liappy a 
home.” 

‘‘Ay, that’s all very well for you, who are certain of a great 
man’s house. ” 

‘‘ Would that 1 were certified that my brother would be as well 
off as you, if you did but know it,” said Ambrose. “Ha! here 
come the dishes! ’Tis supper time come on us unawares, and 
Stephen not returned from Mile End!” 

Punctuality was not, however, e.xacted on these summer Sunday 
evenings, wdien practice with the bow and other athletic sports was 
enjoined by government, and, iporeover, the youths were with so 
trustworthy a member of the household as Kit Smallbones. 

Sundry City magnates had come to supper with Master Headley, 
and whether it w'ere the effect of Ambrose’s counsel, or of the ex- 
ample of a handsome lad who had come with his lather, one of the 
worshipful guild of ^Merchant Tailors, Giles did vouchsafe to bestir 
himself in waiting, and in consideration of the effort it must have 
cost him, old Mrs. Headley and her son did not take notice of his 
blunders, but only Dennet fell into a violent fit of laughter, when 
he presented the stately alderman with a nutmeg und<ir the impres- 
sion that it was an overgrown peppercorn. She suppressed her 
mirth as well as she could, poor little thing, for it was a great offense 
in good manners, but she was detected, and, only child as she was, 
the consequence ivas the being banished from the table and sent to 
bed. 

But when, after supper was over, Ambrose went out to see if there 
were any signs of the return of Stephen and the rest, he found the 
little maiden curled up in the gallery with her kitten in her arms. 

‘‘ Nay!” she said, in a spoiled-cliild tone, ‘‘ I’m not going to bed 
before my time tor laughing at that great oat! Nurse Alice sa3's he 
is to wed me, but 1 won’t have him! I like the pretty boy who had 


4C THE ARMOUEEr’s PRENTICES. 

the good dog and saved father, and 1 like you, Master Ambrose. Sit 
down by me and tell me the story over again, and we shall see Kit 
Smallboncs come home. 1 know he’ll have beaten the brewer's 
fellow,” 

Before Ambrose had decided whether thus far to abet rebellion, 
she jumped up and cried: ‘‘ Oh, 1 see Kit! fle’s got my ribbon! 
He has won the match!” 

And down she rushed, quite oblivious of her disgrace," and Am- 
brose presently saw her uplifted in Kit Smallbones’s brawny arms to 
utter her congratulations. 

Stephen w'as equally excited. His head was full of Kit Small- 
bones’s exploits, and of the marvels of the sports he had witnessed 
and joined in with fair success. He had thought Londoners poor 
effeminate creatures, but he found that these youths preparing for 
the trained bands understood all sorts of martial exercises far better 
than any of his forest acquaintance, save perhaps the hitting of a 
mark. He wsxs halt wild with boy’s enthusiasm for Kit Small- 
bones and Edmund Burgess, and when, after eating the supper that 
had been reserved for the late comers, he and his brother repaired to 
their own chamber, his tongue ran on in description of the feats he 
had witnessed and his hopes of emulating them, since he understood 
that archbishop as was my Lord of York, there wsis a tilt-yard at 
Whitehall. Ambrose, equally full of his new feelings, essayed to 
make his brother a sharer in them, but Stephen entirely tailed to un- 
derstand more than that his book- w'orm brother had heard something 
that delighted him in his own line of scholarship, from which 
Stephen had happily escaped a year ago! 


CHAPTER VIL 

. YORK HOUSE. 

“ Then hath he servants five or six score, 

Some behind and some before ; 

A marvelous great company 
Of ■which are lords and gentlemen. 

With many grooms and yeomen 
And also knaves among them.” 

Contemporanj Poem on Wolsey. 

Eari.y were hammers ringing on anvils in the Dragon Court, and 
all was activity. Master Headlej’^ was giving his orders to Kit Small- 
bones before setting forth to take the Duke of Buckingham’s com- 
mands; Giles Headley, very much disgusted, was being invested with 
a leathern apron, and intrusted to Edmund Burgess to learn those 
primary arts of furbishing, which, but for his mother’s vanity and 
his father’s weakness, he would have practiced four years sooner. 
Tibbie Steelman was superintending the arrangement of half adozen 
corselets, which were to be carried by three stout porters, under his 
guidance, to Whitehall, then the residence of the Archbishop of 
York, the king’s prime adviser, Thomas Wolsey. 

‘‘ Look you, Tib,” said the kind-hearted armorer, ” if those lads 
find not their kinsman, or find him not what they look for, bring 
them back hither, I cannot have them cast adrift. They are good 
and brave youths, and 1 owe a life to them.” 


THE ARMOUKER^S PRENTICES. 47 

Tibbie nodded entire assent, but when the boys appeared in tlieir 
mourning suits, with their bundles on their backs, they were sent 
back again to put on their forest green, Master Headley explaining 
that it was reckoned ill omened, it not insulting, to appear betore 
any great personage in black, unless to enhance some petition direct- 
ly addressed to himself. lie ulso bade them leave thefr fardels be- 
hind, as, if they tarried at York House, these could be easily sent 
after them. 

They obeyed — even Stephen doing so with more alacrity than he 
had hithenb shown to Master Headley’s behests, for now that the 
time for departure had come, he was really .sorry to leave the 
jinnorer’s household. Edmund Burgess had been very good-natured 
to the raw country lad, and Kit Smallbunes was, in his eyes, an 
Ascapart in strength, and a Bevis in prowess and kindliness. Mis- 
tress Headley too had been kind to the oriihan lads, and these two 
days had given a feeling of being at liome at the Dragon. When 
Giles wislied them a moody farewell, and wisned he were going with 
them, Stephen returned, “ Ah! you don’t know when j'ou are well 
oft.” 

Little Dennet came running down after them with two pinks in 
lier hands. ” Here’s a sop-in-wiue for a token for each of you young 
gentlemen,” she cried, ” for 3-011 came to help father, and I would 
3mu were going to stay and wed me instead of Giles.” 

” Wnat, both of us, little maid?” said Ambrose, laughing, as he 
stooped to receive the kiss her rosy lips tendered to him. 

” Not but what she would have royal example,” muttered Tibbie, 
siside. 

Dennet put her head on one side, Jis considering. ‘‘Nay, not 
both, but you are gentle and courteous, and he is brave and gallant 
— and Giles there is moody and glum, and can do naught.” 

‘‘ Ah! you will see what a gallant fellow Giles can be when thou 
hast cuied him of his home sickness by being good 10 him, ’ said 
Ambrose, sorry for the youth in the universal laughter at the child’s 
plain speaking. 

And thus the lads left the Dragon, amid friendly farewells. Am- 
brose looked up at the tall spire of St. Paul’s with a strong determi- 
nation that he would never put himself out ot reach of such w-ords 
as he had there drunk in, and which were indeed spirit and life to 
him. 

’IThble took them down to the St. Paul’s stairs on the river, where 
at his whistle a wherry was iustautl}- brought to transport them to 
Whiteliall stair-s, oul}'^ one of the smiths going any further in chaige 
of the corselets. Very lovel}’’ was their vo3^age in the brilliant sum- 
mer morning, as the glittering water reflected in broken rijiples 
church spire, convent garden, and stately house. Here rows of elm 
trees made a cool walk b}- the river side, there strawberry beds sloped 
down the Strand, and now and then the hooded figures of nuns 
might be seen gathering the fruit. There, rose the round church of 
the Temple, and the beautiful gardens surrounding the buildings, 
half monastic, half military, and already inhabited by law3-ers. 
From a barge at the Temple slairs a legal personage descended with 
a square beard, and open benevolent shrewd face, before whom 
Tibbie removed his cap with eagerness, saying to Ambrose, ” Yon- 


48 


THE AKMOCKEU’S I’RENTICES. 


tier is Master JMore, a close friend of the dean’s, a good and wise 
man, and forward in every good work.” 

Thus did they arrive at York House, as Whitehall Tvas then termed. 
Workmen were busy on some portions of it, but it was inhabited b}' 
the great archbishop, the king’s chief adviser. The approach of the 
boat seemed to be instantly notified, as it drew near the stone steps 
giving entrance to the gardens, with an avenue of trees leading up 
to the irriucipal entrance. 

Four or five yeomen ran down the steps, calling out to Tibbie that 
their corselets had tarried a long time, and 1 hat Sir Thomas Drury had 
been storming for him, to get his tilting armor into order 

Tibbie followed the man who had undertaken to conduct him 
tliiough a path that 1.3d to the offices of the great hou.se, bidding the 
boys keep with him, and asking tor then uncle Master llarry Ran 
dail. 

The yeoman shoos: tire head fle knew no such j^erson in tire 
household, anc did not think there ever had been such. Sir Thomas 
Drury was iound in the sta'olo court, trying tbe paces of the home 
he intended to u.se in the approaching joust “ Ila - old WTy- 
mouth,” he cried, welcome at last! it must nave my new device 
damasked on my shield Come hither, and I'll show it thee 

fTivate rooms were seldom enjoyed, even by knights and gentle 
men, in such a hoaschold, and Sir Thomas could only conduct Tib- 
bie to the armory, where numerous suits of armor hung on blocks, 
presenting the semblance of aimed men The knight, a good 
looking personage, expatiated much on the device he wished to 
dedicate to his lady-love, a pierced heart with a forget-me-not in the 
midst, and it was not until the directions were finished that Tibbie 
ventured to mention the inquiry fo3 Randall. 

‘‘ 1 wot of no such fellow,” returned Sir Thomas, “ you had best 
go to the comptroller, who keeps all the names.” 

Tibbie had to go to this functionary at any rate, to obtain an 
order for payment for the corslets he had Irrought home. Ambrose 
and Stephen followed him across an enormous hall, where three 
long tables were being laid for dinner. 

Tire comptroller of the household, an esquire of good birth, with a 
stiff little ruff round his neck, sat in a sort of office inclosed by 
panels at the end of the hall, lie made an entry of Tibbie’s account 
in a big book, and sent a message to the cofferer to bring tbe 
amount. Then Tibbie again put his question on behalf of the two 
young foresters, and the comptroller shook his head. He did not know 
the name. ‘‘ Was the gentleman ” (he chose that word as he looked 
at the boys) ” layman or clerk?” ” Layman, certainly,” said Am- 
brose, somewhat dismayed to find how little, on interrogation, he 
really knew. 

“Was he a yeoman of the guard, or in attendance on one of my 
lord’s nobles in waiting?” 

“ Wc thought he had been a yeoma j,” said Ambrose 

“ Sec,” said the comptroller, stinnilatcd by a fee administejod by 
Tibbie, “ ’tis just dinner time, and 1 must go to attend on my Lord 
Archbi.shop, but do you, Tibbie, sit down with these slriplings to 
iliuner, and then 1 will cast niy eye over the books, and see if i can 


THE armourer’s prentices. 49 

find any such name. 'What, hast not time? None ever quits my 
lord’s without iDreaking his fast. 

Tibbie had no doubt that his master would be willing that he 
should give up his time for this purpose, so he accepted the invita- 
tion. The tables were by this time nearly covered, but stood 
waiting, for there flowed in from the great doorway of the hall a 
gorgeous train — first, a man bearing the double archiepiscopal cross 
of York, fashioned in silver, and thick with gems— then, with lofty 
miter enriched with pearls and jewels, and with flowing violet, lace- 
covered robes came tUe sturdy, square faced, ruddy prelate, who was 
then the chief influence in England, and after him two glittering 
ranks of priests in square caps and richly embroidered copes, all in 
accordant colors. They were returning, as a yeoman told Tibbie, 
troni some great ecclesiastical ceremony, and dinner would be served 
instantly. 

“ That for which Ralf Ilowyer lives!” said a voice close by. " He 
would fain that the dial’s 'hands were Marie bones, the face blanc 
mange, wherein the figures should be grapes of Corinth!” 

Stephen looked round and saw a man close besiae him in what he 
knew at once to be the garb of a jester. A tall scarlet velvet cap, 
with three peaks, bound with gold braid, and each surmounted with 
a little gilded bell, crowned his head, a small crinrson ridge to indi- 
cate the cock’s comb running along the front. His jerkin and hose 
were of motley, the left arm and right leg being blue, their oppo- 
sites, orange tawny, while the nether stocks and shoes were in like 
manner black and scarlet counterchanged. And yet, somehow, 
whether from the way of wearing it, or from the effect of the gold 
embroider^’^ meandering over all, the effect was not distressing, but 
more like that of a gorgeous bird. The figure was tall, lithe, and 
active, the brown ruddy face had none of the blank stare of vacant 
idiocy, but was full of twinkling merriment, the black eyes laughed 
gaily, and perhaps only so clear sighted and shrewd an observer as 
Tibbie would have detected a weakness of purpose about the 
mouth. 

There was a roar of laughter -at the gibe, as indeed there was at 
whatever was uttered by the man whose profession was to make 
mirth. 

‘‘ Thou likest thy food well enough thyself, Quipsome one,” mut- 
tered Ralf. 

“ Hast found one who doth not, Ralf? Then should he have a 
free gift of my bauble,” responded the jester, shaking on high that 
badge, surmounted with the golden head of an ass, and jingling with 
bells. ” How now, friend 'Wrymouth? ’Tis long since thou wert 
here! This house hath well nigh been forced to its ghostly weaixrns 
for lack of thy substantial ones. AVhere hast thou been?” 

‘‘ At Salisbury, good Merryman. ” 

” Have the Wills men raked the moon yet out of the pond? Did 
they lend thee their rake, Tib, that thou hast raked up a couple of 
green Forest palinerworms, or be they the sons of the man in the 
moon, raked out and all astray?” 

‘‘Mayhap, for we met them with dog and bush,” said Tibbie, 
” and they dropped as from the moon to save my poor master from 
the robbers on Bagshot heath! Come now, mine honest fellow, aid 


50 


THK AHMOUKER'S 1‘REXTICES. 


me to rake, as thou sayest, this same household. They are come up 
from the Forest, to seek out their uucle, one Eandall, who they have 
heard to be in this meine. Knowest thou such a fellow?” 

” To seek a needle in a bottle of hay! Truly he needs my ^auble 
who sent them on such an errand,” said the jester, rather slowly as 
it to take time for consideration. “ What’s your name, my Forest 
liies?” 

‘‘ Birkenholt, sir,” answered Ambrose; ” but our uncle is Harry 
Randall.” 

“ Here’s fools now to take away mine office,” was the reply. 
” Here’s a couple of lads would leave the greenwood and the free 
oaks and beeches, for this stinking, plague-smitten London.” 

” We’d not have quitted it could we have tarried at home,” began 
Ambrose; but at that moment there was a sudden commotion, a 
trampling of horses was heard outside, a loud imperious voice de- 
manded, ” Is my Lord Archbishop within?” a whisper ran round, 
‘ the king, ” and there entered the hall with hasty steps, a figure 
never tc be forgotten, clad in a hunting dress of green velvet em- 
broidered with gold, with a golden hunting horn slung round his 
neck 

Henry Vi.il. was then in the splendid prime of his youth, in his 
twenty-seventh year, and in the eyes, not only of his own subjects, 
but of uii others, the very type of a true king of men. Tall, and as 
yet of perfect form for strength, agility, and grace; his features 
were of the beautiful straight Plantageuet type, and his complexion 
of purely fair rosiness, his well opened blue e3’^es full at once of 
frankness and keenness, and the short golden board that fringed his 
square chin giving the manly air that otherwise might have seemed 
Avanting to the feminine tinting of his regular lineaments. All caps 
Avere instantly doffed save the little bonnet with one drooping feather 
that covered his short curled yelloAv hair; and the Earl of Derby, 
Avho Avas at the head of Wolsey’s retainers, made haste, bowing to 
the ground, to assure him that my lord archbishop was but doffing 
his robes, and would be with his grace instantly. Would his grace 
vouchsafe to come on to the piivj’^ chamber wheie the dinner Avas 
spread? 

At the same moment Quipsome Hal sprung forw'ard, exclaiming, 
‘‘ Hoav now, brother and namesake? Wherefore this coil? Hath 
cloth of gold wearied yet of cloth of frieze? Is she willing to own 
her right to this?” as he held out his bauble. 

” Holloa, old blister! art thou there?” said the king, good- 
humoredly. “ What! knowest not that we are to have such a A\’ed- 
ding as will be a sight for sore eyes!” 

‘‘ Sore! that’s well said, friend Hal. Thou art making progress 
in mine art! Sore be the eyes wherein thou Avouldst IhroAv dust.” 

Again the king laughed, for every one knew that his sister Mary 
had secretly been married to the Duke of Suffolk for the last two 
months, and that this public marriage and the tournament that was 
to follow AA'ere only for the sake of appearances. He laid his hand 
good-naturedly on the jester’s shoulder as he walked up the hall to- 
Avard the archbishop’s private aiAartmcnts, but the voices of both 
AA^ere loud pitched, and bits of the further convesmation could be 
picked up. ‘‘Weddings are rife in your family,” said the jester, 


THE. AEMOrilER’s^ PHEXTrPES. ol 

“ none of you get weary of fitting on the noose. "What, tfiou thy- 
seif. llal? Ay, thou hast not caught the contagion yet! Now j’e 
gods forefend! If thou hast the chance, thon’lt have it strong.” 

Therewith the archbishop, in his purple robes, appeared in the 
archway at the other end ot the hall, the king joined him, and still 
followed by the jester, they both vanished, it was presently made 
known that the kin>^ was about to dine there, and that all were to sit 
down to eat. The king dined alone with the archbishop as his host; 
the two noblemen who had formed his suite joined the first table in 
the higher hall; the knights that of the steward ot the household, 
who was of knightly degree, and with whom the superior clergy ot 
the household •ute; and the grooms found their places among the 
vast array ot yeomen and serving-men of all kinds with whom Tib 
ble and his two young companions had to eat. A week ago, Stephen 
w’ould have contemnert the idea of being classed with serving-meu 
and grooms, but by this time he was quite bewildered, and anxious 
enough to be thankful to keep near a familiar face on any terms, 
and to feel as it Tibbie were an old friend, though he hud only 
known him for five days. 

Why the king had come had not transpired, but there was a whis 
per that despatches from Scotland were concerned in it. The meal 
was a lengthy one, but at last the king’s horses were ordered, and 
presently Henry came forth, with his arm familiarly linked in that 
of the archbishop, whose horse, had likewise been made ready that 
he might accompany the king back to Westminster. The jester was 
close at hand, and as a parting shaft he observed, while the king 
mounted his horse, ” Friend Hal' give my brotherly commendations 
to our Madge, and tell her that one who weds Anguish cannot choose 
but cry out.” 

Wherewith, afiecting to expect a stroke from the king’s whip, he 
doubled himself up, performed the contortion now called turning a 
coachwheel, then, recovering himself, put his hands on his hips and 
danced wildly on the steps; while Henry, shaking his whip at him, 
laughed at the only too obvious pun, for Anguish was the English 
version of Angus, the title of Queen Margaret’s second husband, 
and it was her complaints that had brougnt him to his coun.selor. 

The jester then, much to the annoyance of the two boj's, thought 
proper to follow them to the office of the compi roller, and as that (fig- 
nitary read out from his books the name of every Henry, and of all 
the varieties of Half and Randolf among the hundred and eighty 
persons composing the household, he kept on making comments. 
” Harry Hempseckl, clerk to the kitchen; ay, Hempseed will serve 
his turn one of these days. Walter Kandall, groom of the cham- 
ber; ah, ha! my lads, if you want a generous uncle who will look 
after you well, there is your man! He’ll give you the shakings of 
the napery for largesse, and w'hen he is in an open-handed mood, 
will let you lie on the rushes that have served the hall. Harry of 
Lambeth, yeoman of the stable. He will make you free of all the 
taverns in Eastchepe.” 

And so on, accompanying each remark with a pantomime 
mimicry of the air and gesture of the individual. He showed in a 
second the contortions of Harry Weston in drawing the bow, and in 
another the grimaces of Henry Hope, the choir man, in producing 


52 


THE armourer’s PRENTfCES. 


bass notes, or the swelling majesty of Randall Porcher, the cross- 
bearer, till it really seemed as if he had shown off the humors ot at 
least a third of the enormous household. Stephen had laughed at 
first, but as failure after failure occurred, the antics began to wear}"^ 
even him, and seem unkind and ridiculous as hope ebbed awa 5 % and 
the appalling idea began to grow on him of being cast loose on Lon- 
don without a friend or protector. Ambrose felt almost despairing 
as he heard in vain the last name. He would almost have been will- 
ing to own Hal the scullion, and his hopes rose when he heard of 
Hodge Randolph, the falconer, but alas, that same Hodge came 
from Yorkshire. 

“ And mine uncle was from the New Forest in Hampshire,” he 
said. 

” Ma 3 ^be he went by the name of Shirley,” added Stephen, ‘‘ 'tis 
where his home was.” 

Rut the comptroller, unwilling to begin a fresli search, replied at 
once that the only Shirley in the household was a noble esquire of 
the Warwickshire family. 

You must e’en come back with me, young masters,” said Tib- 
bie, ” and see what my master can do tor you.” 

” Stay a bit,” said the tool. ” Harry of Shirley! Harry of Shir- 
ley! Methinks 1 could help you to the man, if so be as j'ou will 
deem him worth finding,” he added, suddenly turning upside down, 
and looking at them standing on the palms of his hands, with an in- 
describable leer uf drollery, which in a moment dashed all the hopes 
with which they had turned to him. ' “ Should you know this nunks 
ot yours?” he added. 

” 1 think I should,” said Ambrose. ” 1 remember best how he 
used to caiT}^ me on his shoulder to cull mistletoe tor Christmas.” 

“ Ah, ha! A proper fellow othis inches now, with j^ellow hair?” 

” Nay,” said Ambrose, ” 1 mind that his hair was black, and his 
eyes as black as sloes — or as thine own. Master .Tester.” 

The jester tumbled over into a more extraordinary attitude than 
Ijefore, while Stephen said — 

” John was wont to twit us with being akin to Gypsy Hal.” 

” 1 mean a man sad and grave as the monks of Beaulieu,” said the 
jester. 

” He!” they both cried. ” No, indeed! He w'as foremost in all 
sports. ” ‘ ‘ Ah ! ’ ’ cried Stephen, ‘ ‘ mind jmu not, Ambrose, his teach- 
ing us leap-frog, and aye leaping over- one of us himself, with the 
other in his arms?” 

” Ah! sadly changed, sadl.y changed,” said the jester, standing 
upright, with a most mournful countenance. ” 31 aj'be you’d not 
thank me it 1 showed him to you, young sirs, that is, if he be the 
man.” 

‘‘ Nay! is he in need, or distress?” cried the brothers. 

“ Poor Hal!” returned the fool, shaking his head with mourntulness 
in his voice. 

” Oh, take us to him, good— good jester,” cried Ambrose. “ We 
are young and strong. We will work for him.” 

” What, a couple of lads like you, that have come to London seek- 
ing for him to befriend you — deserving well my cap for that matter. 


THE AEMOFRER’s PRENTK'ES. 53 

■Will ye be guided to him, broken and soured — no more gamesome, 
but a sickly old runagate?” 

“Of course, ’ ’ cried Ambrose. ‘ * He is cur mother’s brother , We 
must care for him.” 

“ Master Headley will give us w'ork, mayhap,” said Stephen, turn- 
ing to Tibbie. ‘‘ i could clean the furnaces.” 

” Ah, ha! I see fools’ caps must hang thick as beech masts in the 
Forest,” cried the tool, but his voice was Siusky, and he turned 
suddenly round with his back to them, then cut three or four ex- 
traordinary capers, after which he observed — ‘‘ Well, young gentle- 
men, 1 will see the man I mean, and if he be the same, and be will- 
ing to own you tor his nephews, he will meet you in the Temple 
Gardens at six of the clock this evening, close to the rose bush with 
the flowere in my livery — motley red and white.” 

“ But how shall we know him?” 

“ D’ye think a pair of green caterpillais like you can’t be marked 
—unless indeed the gardener crushes you l<n’ blighting his roses.” 
Wherewith the jester quitted the scene, walking on his hands, with 
his legs in the air. 

“ Is he to be trusted?” asked Tibbie of the comptroller. 

“ Assuredly,” wars the answer; ‘‘ none halh bettei wdt than Quip- 
some Hal, when he chooseth to be in eaniest. In veiy deed, as 1 
have heard Sir Thomas More say, it needeth a wise man to be fool to 
my Lord of York, ” 


CHAPTER VIH 

QU1P80MK HAI,. 

The sweet and bitter fool 
Will presently appear 
The one in motley here 
The other found out there.'* 

Shakespeaue. 

THEKia lay the quiet Temple Gartlens, on the Thames bank, cut 
out in formal wallcs, with flowers growing in the beds of the homely 
kinds beloved by the English. Musk roses, honej’’suckle and vir- 
gin’s bower climbed on the old gray walls ; sops-in-wine, bluebottles, 
bachelor’s buttons, stars of Bethlehem and the like filled the borders; 
May thorns were in full sweet blossom; and near one another were 
the two rose bushes, one damask, and one white Provence, rvhence 
Somerset and Warwick weie said to have plucked their fatal badges; 
while on the opposite side of a broad grass plot was another bush, 
looked on as a great curiosity of the best omen where the roses were 
streaked with alternate red and white, in honor, as it were, of the 
union of York and Lancaster. 

By this rose tree stood the two young Birkenholts. Edmund Bur- 
gess having, by his master’s desire, shown them the way, and passed 
them in by a word and sign from his master, then retired unseen to 
a distance to mark what became of them, they having promised also 
to return and report of themselves to IMaster Headley. 

They stood together earnestly watching for the coming of the 
uncle, feeling quite uncertain whether to exjiect a frail old” broken 


54 TUE aemourer’s prexttces. 

man, or to find themselves absolutely deluded, and made game of by 
the jester. 

The gardens were nearly empty, for most people were sitting over 
• their supper tables after the business of the day was_ over, and only 
one or two figures in black gowns paced up and down in conversation. 

“ Come awaj% Ambrose,” said Stephen at last. “ He only meant 
to make fools of us I Come, before he comes to gibe us for having 
heeded a moment. Come, 1 say — here’s this man coming to ask us 
what we are doing here.” 

For a tall, well-made, well-dressed personage in the black or sad 
color of a legal official, looking like a prosperous householder, or 
superior artisan, was approaching them, some attendani as the boys 
concluded, belonging to the Temple, They ejspected to be turned 
out, and Ambrose, in an apologetic tone, began, '' Sir, we were bid- 
den to meet a — a kinsman here ” 

” And even so am l,”.was the answer, in a grave quiet tone, ‘ or 
rather to meet twain.” 

Ambrose looked up into a pair of dark eyes, and exclaimed, 
‘‘ Stevie, Stevie, ""tis he. ’ Tis tlncle Hal.” 

“ Ay, 'tis all 3 mu’re like to have for him,’' answered Harry Ran- 
dall, enfolding each in bis embrace. ” Lad, how izkethou art to my 
poor sister J And is she indeed gone — and youi honest father too- ■ 
and none left at home but that hunks, little John? How and when 
died she?” 

“Two years agone come Lammastide,” answered Stephen 
“ There was a deadly creeping fever and ague through the Forest. 
We two sickened, and Ambrose was so like to die that Diggory went 
to the abbey for the priest to house, and anneal him, bu; by the time 
Father Simon came he was sound asleep, and soon was whole again. 
But before we were on our '.sgs, our blessed mother took tne disease, 
and she jiassed away ere many days were over Then though poor 
father never took that sickness, he never was the same man again, 
and only twelve days after last Pasch-tide he was taken with a fit 
and never spake again, ’ 

Stephen was weeping by this time, and his uncle had a hand on 
his shoulder, and with tears in his eyes, threw in ejaculations of pity 
and affection. Ambrose finished the narrative with a broken voice 
indeed, but as one who had more self-commandthan his brother, per 
haps than his uncle, whose exclamations became bitter and angry as 
he heard of the treatment the boys had experienced from theii half- 
lirother, whom, as he said, he had always known as a currish, mean- 
sjiirited churl, but scarce such as this. 

“Nor do 1 tbmk be would have been save for his wife, Maud 
Pratt of Hampton,” said Ambrose. “Nay, truly, also he deemed 
that we were only within a day’s journey of council from our Uncle 
Richard at Hyde.” 

“ Richard Birkeuholt was a sturdy old comrade! Methinks he 
would give ^Master Jack a piece of his mind.” 

“ Alack, good uncle, we found him in his dotage, and the bursar 
of Hyde made quick woi k with us, for fear, good Father Shoveller 
said, that we were come to look after his corrody.” 

“ Shoveller— what, a Shoveller of Cronbury? How fell ye iu with 
him?” 


55 


THE ARMOUUER’s PRENTICES. 

Ambrose told the adventures of their journey and Randall ox- 
claimed, “ By my bau— I mean by my faith— if ye have ill luck in 
uncles, ye have had good luck in friends/’ 

“ Iso ill luck in thee, good kind uncle,'' said Stephen, catching at 
his hand with the sense of comfort that kindred blood gives. 

“ How wottest thou that, child? Did not 1—1 mean did not Merry- 
man tell you, that mayhap ye would not be willing to own j'our 
uncle?’ 

“We deemed he was but jesting,” said Stephen. “ Ah!’ 

For a sudden twinkle in the black eyes, an involuntary twist of the 
muscles of tie face were a sudden revelation to him. He clutched 
hold of Ambrose with a sudden grasp ; Ambrose toe looked and re- 
coiled for a moment, while the color spread over his face. 

“ Yes, lads. Can you brook the thought— Harry Randall is the 
poor fool!” 

Stephen, whose composure had already broken down, burst into 
tears again, perhaps mostly at the downfall of ali his own expecta- 
tions and glorifications of the kinsman about whom he had boasted 
Ambrose only exclaimed, “ O uncle, you must have been hard 
pressed. ” For indeed the grave, almost melancholy man who stood 
before them, regarding them wistfully, had little in common with 
the lithe tumbler lull of absurdities whom they had left at York 
House. 

‘ ‘ Even so, my good iad. Thou art right in that, ” said he gravel3^ 
“ Harder than 1 trust wil. ever he the lot of you two, my sweet 
Moll’s sons. She never guessed that 1 was come to this.” 

“ O no,” said Stephen “ She always thought thou — thou hadst 
some high preferment in — ” 

“ And so 1 have, ’ said Randall with something of his ordinary 
humor. “ There’s no man dares tc speak such plain truth to m3' 
lord — or for that matter to King Harr3' himself, save his own Jack- 
a-Lee— and he, being a fool of nature’s own making, cannot use his 
chances, poor rogue! And so the poor lads came up to London hop- 
ing to find a gallant captain who could bring them to high prefer- 
ment, and found naught but— Tom Fool! 1 could find it in 105’^ 
heart to weep for them! And so thou mindest clutching the mistle- 
toe on nunk Hal’s shoulder. 1 warrant it groweth still on the 
crooked May bush? And is old Bobbin alive?” 

The3' answered his questions, but still as it under a great shock, 
and presently he said, as' they paced up and down the garden walks, 
“ A3', I have been sore bestead, and I’ll tell you how it came about, 
bo3"S, and ma3'hap ye will pardon the poor fool, who would not own 
you sooner, lest ye should come in for mockery ye have not learnt to 
brook. ” There was a sadness and pleading in his tone that touched 
Ambrose, and he drew neiirer to his uncle, who laid a hand on his 
shoulder, and presentl3' the other on that of Stephen, who shrunk a 
little at first, but submitted. “ Lads, 1 need not tell you why I left 
fair Shirley and the good greenwood. 1 was a worse fool then than 
ever 1 have been since 1 wore the cap and bells, and if all had been 
brought home to me, it might have brought your father and mother 
into trouble— my sweet Moll who had done her best for me. 1 
deemed, as 3'ou do now, that the way to fortune was open, but 1 
found no path before me, and 1 had tightened my belt many a time, 


56 


thp: armoukek's prentices. 


and was not much more than a bag of hones, when, by chance, 1 fell 
in with a company of tumblers and gleemen. 1 sung them the old 
hunting song, and they said 1 did it tunably, and, whereas they saw 
I could already dance a hornpipe and turn a someisault passably 
well, the leader of the troop, old Nat Fire-eater, took me on, and 
methinks he did not repent-^norl neither— save when 1 sprained my 
toot and had time to lie by and think. We had plenty to fill our bel- 
lie,s, and put on our backs, we had welcome wherever we went, and 
the groats and pennies rained into our caps. 1 was clown and Jack 
Pudding and whatever served their turn, and the very name of 
Quipsome Hal drew crowds Yea, ^twas a merry life! Ay, f feel 
thee wince anci shrink, my lad, and sc should 1 have shuddered 
when 1 was of thine age, and hoped to come to better things, 

*' Methinks ''twere hette!’ than this present," said Stephen rather 
gruffly 

" 1 had my reasons, floy,' said Randall, speaking as il he were 
pieaciing his cause with their faihei and mother rather than with 
two such :ads •*' There was In our company an old man-at arms 
whe pliayec the lute and the rebeck, and sung ballads so long as 
hanu and voice served him, and with him went his grandchild, a 
iaii and honest little maiden, whom he Kepi so jealously apart that 
twas :ong ere 1 knew of her following the ixtmpany He had been 
c- I ran Kiln on my Lord of Warwicl^s lands, and had once been 
burned out by Queen Margaret’s men, and just as things looked up 
again with him. King Edward’s folk ruined all again, and slew his 
two sons When great folk play the fool, small folk pay the scot, 
as I '-t'O. into his giace’s ears whenever 1 may A minion of the 
Ouk c of Clarence got the steading, and poor old IVlartin Fulford was 
turned out tt shift as best he might. One son he had left, and with 
him nb wen- tc the Low Countries, where they would have done well 
Had they not been bitten by faith in the fellow Perkin Warbeck. 
You've beai-d of him?’' 

‘ Yea," said Ambrose; “ the same who was taken out of sanctu- 
ary at Beaulieu, and borne off to London. Father said he was 
marvelous like in the face to all the kings he had ever seen hunting 
in the Forest ’ 

'' S -mow not. but to the day of liis death old Martin swore that 
lie was 14 son of King Edward’s, and they came home again with the 
men the Duchess oi Burgundy gave Perkin — came bag and baggage, 
for young Fulford had wedded a fair Flemish wife, poor soul! He 
left her with his father nigh to Taunton ere the battle, and he was 
never heard of more, but as he was one of the tew men who knew 
iiow to fight, belike he w;is slain. Thus old Martin was left with 
1 lie Flemish wife and her little one on his hands, for whose sake he 
(lid what went against him sorely, joined himself to this troop of jug- 
glers and pla 3 'ers, so as to live by the minstrelsy he had learncjd in 
better cays, while his daughter-in-law mended and made for the 
company and kept them in smai’t and shining trim. By the time I 
fell in with them his voice was well-nigh gone, and his hand sorely 
shaking, but Fire-eating Nat, the master of our troop, was not an 
ill matured- fellow, and the glee women’s feet were well used to his 
rebeck. Moreover, the Fire-eater had an eye to little Perrouel, 
though her mothpr had never let, liim train her — scarce let him set an 


THE ATIMOURER’s PRENTICES. 57 

eye on her; and when Mistress Full'ord died, poor soul, of ague, 
caught when we showed off bet ore the merry Prior of Worcester, her 
hist words were that Perronel should never be a glee maiden. Well, 
to make an end af my tale, we had one day a mighty show at Wind- 
sor, when the king and court were at the castle, audit was whispered 
to me at the end that my Lord Archbishop's household needed a 
jester, and that Quipsome Hal had been thought to make excellent 
fooling, 1 gave thanks at first, but said 1 would rather be a free 
man not bound to be a greater fool than Dame Nature made me all 
the hours of the day. But when 1 got back to the Garter, what 
should 1 find but that poor old Martin had been stricken with the 
dead palsy while he was playing his rebeck, and wouid never twang 
a note more, and there w as pretty Perronel weeping over him, and 
Nai Fire-eater pledging his word to give the old man bed, board, 
and all that he "could need, if so be that Perronel should be trained 
to be one of his giee maidens, to dance and tumble and sing. And 
there was the poor old franklin shaking nis head more than the palsy 
made it shake already, and trying to frame his lips to say, ' rather 
they both should die.‘ “ 

“ Oh, uncle, 1 wot now what thou didstl” cried Stephen. 

“ Yea, lad, there was naught else to be done. 1 asked Master Ful- 
ford to give me Perronel, plighting my word that never should she 
sing or dance for any one's pleasure save her own and mine, and let 
ting him know that I oamo of c> worthy family. We were wedded 
out of hand by the priest that had been sent for to housel him, and 
in our irue names. The Fire-eater was fiery enough, and swore that, 
wedded or not, 1 was bound to him, that he woidd have both of us, 
and would not drag about a helpless old man unless he might have 
the wench to do his bidding. 1 verily believe that, but for my being 
on the walch and speaking a wmrd to two or three stout yeomen of 
the king’s guard that chanced to be crushing a pot of sack at the 
Garter, he would have played some villainous trick on us. They 
gave a hint to my Lord of York’s steward, and he came down and 
declared that the arclibishop required Quipsome Hal, and would — of 
his grace — send a purse of nobles to the Fire-eater, wherewith he was 
to be off on the spot without more ado, or he might find it the worse 
for him; and they, together with mine host’s good wife, took care 
that the rogue did not carry away Perronel witli him, as he was like 
to have done. To end my story, here am 1, getting showers of gold 
coins one day and naught hut kicks and gibes the next, while my 
good woman keeps house nigh here on the banks of the Thames witli 
Gaffer Martin. Her Flemish thrift has set her to the washing and 
clear-starching of the lawyers’ ruffs, whereby she makes enough to 
supply the defects of my scanty days, or when 1 have to follow my 
lord’s grace out of her reach, sweet soul. TJiere’s my tale, nevoys. 
And now, have ye a hand for Quipsome Hal?” 

“ O uncle! Father would have honored thee!” cried Stephen. 

” Why didst thou not brine her down to the Forest?” said Am- 
brose. 

” 1 conned over the thought,” said Randall, ” but there was no 
way of living. 1 wist not whether the Ranger might not stir up old 
tales, and moreover old Martin is ill to move, we brought him 
down by boat from Windsor, aud he has never quitted the house 


58 


THE armourer's rREHTICES. 

since, nor his bed for the last two yeare. You’ll come and see the 
housewife? She hath a supper laying out for you, and on the way 
we’ll speak of what ye are to do, my poor lads.” 

‘‘ I’d forgotten that,” said Stephen. 

” So had not 1,’ returned his uncle; ‘‘ I fear me 1 cannot aid you 
to preferment as you expected. None know’ Quipsome Hal by any 
name but that of Harry Menyman, and it w’ere not well that ye 
should come in there as akin to the poor fool.” 

'* No,” said Stephen, emphatically. 

Your father left you tw’enty crowns apiece?” 

” Ay, but John hath all save four of them.” 

'* For that there’s remedy. What saidst thou of the Cheapside 
armorerV His fellow, the Wrymouth, seemed to have a care of you. 
Ye made in to the rescue, with poor old Spring, ” 

'Even so,’' replied Ambrose, ‘'and if Stevie would brook the 
thought, 1 trow that blaster Headley would be quite willing to have 
him bound as his apprentice.” 

’■Web said, my good lad'” cried Hal. "What sayest thou, 
Btevie?' 

•’ jL had liefer be a man-at*arms, ” 

■ Thai thou couldst only be after being sorely knocked about as 
norseboy and as groom 1 tried that once, but found it meant kicks, 
and oaths, and vile company-such as 1 would not have for thy 
mother's son, Steve. Headley is a w’ell-reported, God fearing man, 
and wil’’. do weJL by thee. And thou wilt learn the use of arms as 
well as handle them.” 

• 1 like blaster Headley and Kit Smallbones well enough,” said 
Stephen, rather gloomily, “ and if a gentleman must be a prentice, 
weapons are not so bad a craft for him.” 

‘ Whittington was a gentleman,” said Ambrose. 

” 1 am sick of Whittington,” muttered Stephen. 

‘ Nor is he the only one,” said Randall; ‘‘ there’s Middleton and 
Pole — ay, and many another who have risen from the flat cap to the 
open helm, if not to the coronet. Nay, these London companies have 
rules against taking any prentice not of gentle blood. Come in to 
supper with my good woman, and then I’ll go with thee and hold 
converse with good Master Headley, and if Master John doth not 
send the fee freely, why then 1 know of them who shall make him 
disgorge it But mark,” he added, as he led the way out of the gar- 
dens, not a 'Direath of Quipsome Hal. Down here they know me 
as a clerk of my lord’s chamber, sad and sober, and high in his trust, 
and theiisiE they are not far out. ” 

In truth, though Harry Randall had been a wild and frolicsome 
youth in his Hampshire home, the effect of being a professional 
buffoon had actually made it a relaxation of effort to him to be grave, 
quiet, and slow in movement; and this w’as perhaps a more eflectual 
disguise than the dark garments, and th'e false l)rown hair, beard, 
and mustache, with which he concealed the shorn and shaven con- 
dition required of the domestic jester. Having been a player, he 
w’as wed able to adapt himself to his part, and yet Ambrose had 
considerable doubts whether Tibbie had not suspected his identity 
from the first, more especially as both the lads had inherited the 
same dark eyes from their mother, and Ambrose for the first time 


TUE AKMOritEll’s PllEXTICES. 59 

perceived a considerable resemblance between him and Stephen, not 
only in feature but in unconscious f^esture. 

Ambrose was considering whether he had better give his uncle a 
hint, lest concealment should excite suspicion; when, niched as it 
were against an abutment of the wall of the Temple courts, close to 
some steps going down to the Thames, they came upon a tiny house, 
at whose open door stood a young woman in the snow iest of caps 
and aprons over a short black gown, beneath which were a trim pair 
of blue hosen and stout shoes; a suspicion of yellow' hair was allowed 
to appear framing the honest fresh Flemish face, which beamed a 
good-humored welcome. 

“ Here ihey be! hero be the poor lads, Pernel mine.” She held 
out her hand, and offered a round comfortable cheek to each, saying, 
” Welcome to London, young gentlemen,’"’ 

Good Mistress Perronel did not look exactly the stuff to make a 
glee maiden of, nor even the beauty for whom to sacrifice every- 
thing, even liberty and respect, as a person of full sense. She was 
substantial in form, and broad in face and mouth, without much 
nose, and with large almost colorless eyes. But there w'as a wmnder 
fui look of heartiness and friendliness about her person and her 
house; the boys had never in their lives seen anything so amazingly 
and spotlessly clean and shining. In a corner stood an erection like 
a dark oaken cupboard or w'ardrobe, but in the middle was an open- 
ing about a yard square, through which could be seen the night- 
capped face of a white-headed, white-bearded old man, propped 
against snowy pillow's. To him Randall went at once, saying, ‘‘ So, 
gafl:er, how goes it? You see 1 have brought company, my poor 
sister’s sons — rest her soul!” 

Gaffer Martin mumbled something to them incomprehensible, but 
which the jester comprehended, tor he called them up and named them 
to him, and Martin put out a bony hand, and gave them a greeting. 
Though his speech and limbs had failed him, his intelligence was 
evidently still intact, and there was a tenderly cared for look about 
him, rendering his condition far less pitiable than lhat of Richard 
Birkenholt, who was so evidently treated as an incumbrance. 

The table was already covered with a cloth, and Perronel quickly 
placed on it a yellow bow'l of excellent beef broth, savory w'ith vege- 
tables and pot-herbs, and with meat and dumplings floating in it. 
A lesser bowl was provided for each of the company, with horn 
spoons, and a loaf of good wheaten bread, and a tankard of excellent 
ale. Randall declared that his Perronel made far daintier dishes 
than my Lord Archbishop’s cook, who went e^ ery day in silk and 
velvet. 

He explained to her his views on the armorer, to which she agreed 
with all her might, the old gentleman in bed adding something which 
the boys began to understand, that there w'as no worthier nor more 
honorable condition than that of an English burgess,, specially in the 
good town of Loudon, where the kings knew better than to be ever 
at enmity with their good towns. 

‘‘ Will the armorer take both of you?” asked Mistress Randall. 

” Nay, it was only for Stephen we devised it,” said Ambrose. 

” And what wilt thou do?” 

” 1 wish to be a scliolar,” said Ambrose. 


60 


THE AHMOUUEK's PRENTICES. 


“ A lean trade,” quoth the jester; “ a monk now, or a friar may 
be a right jolly fellow, but 1 liever yet saw a man who throve upon 
books!” 

“ 1 had rather study than thrive,” said Ambrose rather dreamily. 

‘‘ He wotteth not what he saith,” cried Stephen. 

‘‘ Oh ho! so thou art of that sort!” rejoined his uncle. ‘‘ 1 know 
them! a crabbed black and white page is meat and drink to them! 
There’s that Dutch fellow, with a long Latin name, thin and weazen 
as never was Dutchman before; thej”^ saj’’ he has read all the books 
in the world, and can talk in all the tongues, and yet when he and 
Sir Thomas More and the Dean of St. Paul’s get together at my 
lord’s table one would think they were bidding for my bauble. 
Such excellent fooling do they make, that my lord sits holding his 
sides.” 

” The Dean of St. Paul’s!” said .(\jnbrose, experiencing a shock, 

‘‘ Ay! He’s another of your lean scholars, and yet he was born a 
wealthy man, son to a lord mayor, who, they say, reared him alone 
out of a rou!id score of children.” 

‘‘Alack! poor souls,” sighed Mistress Kandali under her breath, 
for, as Ambrose afterward learned, her two babes had scarce seen the 
light. Her husband, while giving her a look of affection, went on 
— ‘‘ Not that he can keep his wealth. He has bestowed the most of 
it on Stepney Church, and on the school he hath founded for poor 
children, nigh to St. Paul’s.” 

” Could 1 get admittance to that school?” exclaimed Ambrose. 

‘‘ Thou art a big fellow for a school,” said his uncle, looking bim 
over. ” How’^ever, faint heart never won fair lady.” 

‘‘ 1 have a letter from the Warden of St. Elizabeth’s to one of the 
clerks of St. Paul’s.” added Ambrose. “ Alworthy is his name.” 

‘‘ That’s well. We’ll prove that same,” said his uncle. “Mean- 
time, if ye have eaten your fill, we must be on uur w'ay to thine 
armorer, nevoy Stephen, or 1 shall be called for.” 

And after a private colloquy between the husband and wife. Am 
brose was by both of them desired to make the little house his home 
until he could find admittance into St. Paul’s School, or some other. 
He demurred somewhat trom a mixture of feelings, in which there 
was a certain amount of Stephen’s longing for freedom of action, 
and likewise a doubt whether he should not thus be a rrreat incon- 
venience in the tiny household, a burden he was resolved not to be. 
But his uncle now took a more serious tone. 

“ Look thou, Ambrose, thou art my sister’s son, and fool though 
1 be, thou art bound in duty to me, and 1 to have charge of thee, nor 
will I — for the sake of thy father and mother — have thee lyinir 1 
know not where, among gulls and cutpurses and beguilers of youth 
here in this city of London. So, till better befalls thee, and I wot 
of it, thou must be here no later than curfew, or 1 wull know the 
reason wdiy.” 

“ And 1 hope the 5 ’’Oung gentleman will find it no sore grievance,” 
said Perronel, so good-humoredly that Ambrose could only protest 
that he had feared to be troublesome to her, and promise" to bring 
his bundle the next day. 


THE armourer's I'REETICES. 


61 


CHAPTER IX. 

ARMS SPIRITUAL AND TEMPORAL. 

“ For him was leifer to have at liis bedde's hedde 
Twenty books clothed in blacke or redde 
Of Aristotle and his philosophie 
Than robes riche or fiddle or psalterie.” 

Chaucer. 

i\lASTEP. Headley tvas found spending the summer evening in 
tlie bay window ot the hall. Tibbie sat on a three-legged stool by 
him, writing in a crabbed hand, in a big ledger, and Kit Smallbones 
towered above both, holding in his hand a bundle ot tally sticks, 
liy the help of these, and of that accuracy of memory which writing 
has destroyed, he was unfolding, down to the very last tarthing, the 
entire account of payments and receipts during his master’s absence, 
the debtor and creditor account being preserved as perfectly as if he 
had always had a pen in his huge fingers and studied book-Keeping 
bj' double or single entry. 

On the return of the two boys with such an apparently respectable 
member of society as the handsome, well-dressed personage who ac- 
companied them, little Dennet, who had been set to sew her sampler 
on a stool by her grandrhother, under penalty of being sent off to 
bed it she disturbed her father, sprung up with a little cry ot glad- 
ness, and running up to Ambrose, entreated tor the tales ot his good 
greenwood forest, and the pucks and pixies, and the girl who daily 
shared her breakfast with a snake and said, “ Eat your own side, 
Speckleback. ” Somehow, on Sunday night, she had gathered that 
Ambrose had a store of such tales, and she dragged him off to the 
gallery, there to revel in them, while his brother remained with her 
father. 

Though Master Stephen had begun by being high and mighty 
about mechanical crafts, and thought it a great condescension to con- 
sent to be bound apprentice, yet when once again in the Dragon 
Court, it looked so friendly and felt so much like a home that he 
found himself very anxious that Master Headley should not say that 
he could take no more apprentices at present, and that he should be 
satisfied with the terms Uncle Hal would propose. And oh! sup- 
pose Tibbie should recognize Quipsome Hal! 

However, Tibbie was at this moment entirely engrossed by the 
accounts, and his master left him and his big companion to unravel 
them, while he himself held speech with his guest at some distance 
— sending for a cup of sack wherewith to enliven the conversation. 

He showed himself quite satisfied with what Randall chose to tell 
of himself as a well known “ housekeeper ” close to the Temple, his 
wife a “ lavender ” there, while he himself was attached to the suite 
of the archbishop. Here alone was there any approach to shuffling, 
for Master Headley was left to suppose that Randall attendeil Wol- 
scy in his capacity of king’s counselor, and therefore, having a 
house of his own, had not been found in the roll of the domestic 
retainers and servants. He did not Ihiuk ot inquiring further, the 


62 TUE akmourek’s prentices. 

more so as Ilandall was perfectly candid as to his own inferiority of 
birth to the Birkenholt family, and the circumstances under which 
he had left the Forest, 

Master Headley professed to be quite willing to accept Stephen as 
an apprentice with or without a tee; but he agreed with Randall that 
it would he much better not to expose him to having it cast in his 
teeth that he was accepted out of charity; and Randall undertook to 
get a letter so written and conve^'ed lo John Birkenholt that he 
should not dare to withhold the needful sum, in earnest of which 
Master Headley would accept the two crowns that Stephen had in 
hand as soon as the indentures could be drawn out by one of the 
many scriveners who lived about St. Paul’s. 

This settled, Raudall could slay no longer, but he called both 
nephews into the court with him. “ Ye can write a letter?” he 
said. 

“ Ay, sure, both of us, but Ambrose is the best scribe,” said 
Stephen. 

” One of you had best write then. Let that cur John know that 
1 have my Lord of York’s ear, and there will be no fear but he will 
give it. I’ll find a sate hand among the clerks, when the .ludges 
ride to hold the assize. Mayhap Ambrose might also write to the 
father at Beaulieu, The thing had best be bruited.” 

“ 1 wished to do so,” said Ambrose. “ It irked me to have taken 
no leave of the good fathers.” 

Randall then took his leave, having little more than time to return 
to Y'ork House, where the archbishop might perchance come home 
wearied and chafed from the king, and the jester might be missed if 
not there to put him in good humor. 

The curfew sounded, and though attention to its notes was not 
compulsory by law, it was regarded as the break up of the evening 
and the note of recall in all well-ordered establishments. The ap- 
pi'cntices and journeymen came into the court, among them Giles 
Headley, who had been taken out by one of the men to be provided 
with a working dress, much to his disgust; the grandmother sum- 
moned little Dennet and carried her ofl: to bed. Stephen and Ambrose 
bade good-night, but Master Headley and his two contidential men 
remained somewhat longer to wind up their accounts. Doors were 
not as a rule locked within the court, for though it contained from 
forty to fifty persons, they w^ere all regarded as a single family, and 
it was enough to fasten the heavily bolted, iron -studded folding 
doois of the great gateway leading into Cheapside, the kej’^ being 
brought to the master like that of a castle, seven minutes, measured 
by the glass, after the last note of the curfew in the belfry outside 
St. Paul’s. 

The summer twilight, however, lasted long after this time of 
grace, and when Tibbie had completed his accountant’s work, and 
Smallbones’ deep voiced ‘‘ Good-night, comrade,” had resounded 
over the court, he beheld a figure rise up from the steps of the gal- 
lery, and Ambrose’s voice said; ‘‘May 1 speak to thee, Tibbie? 1 
need thy counsel.” 

‘‘ Come hither, sir,” said the foreman, muttering to himself, 
” ^rethought ’twas woi'kiug in him! The leaven! the leaven!” 

Tibbie led the way up one of the side stairs into the open gallery. 


THE AKMOUEER’s PllEHTICES. G3 

■where tie presently opened a door, admitting to a small, though high 
chamber, the walls of bare brick, and containing a low bed, a small 
table, ii three-legged stool, a big chest, and two cupboards, also a 
cross over the heitd of the bed. A private room was a luxury 
neither possessed nor desired by most persons ot any degree, and 
only enjoyed by Tibbie in consideration of his great value to his mas- 
ter, his pt^uliar tastes, and the injuries he had received. In point 
of fact, his fall had been owing to a hasty blow, given in a passion 
by the master himselt when a young man. Dismay and repentance 
had made him a cooler and more self-controlled man ever since, and 
even if Tibbie had not been a superior workman he might still have 
been free to do almost anything he chose. Tibbie gave his visitor 
the stool, and himselt sat down on the chest, saying: “ So you have 
found your uncle, sir.” 

‘‘ Ay,” said Ambrose, pausing in some expectation that Tibbie 
would disclose some suspicion ot his identity; but if the foreman had 
his ideas on the subject he did not disclose them, and waited for 
more communications. 

‘‘ Tibbie!” said Ambrose, with a long gasp, ‘‘ 1 must find means 
to bear more of him thou tookedst me to on Sunday.” 

‘‘ None ever truly tasted of that well without longing to come 
back to it,” quoth Tibbie. ” But bath not thy kinsman done aught 
for thee?” 

” Nay,” said Ambrose, “ save to offer me a lodging with his wife, 
a good and kindly lavender at the Temple.” 

Tibbie nodded. 

‘‘So far am I free,” said Ambrose, ‘‘and 1 am glad of it. I 
have a letter here to one of the canons, one Master A1 worthy, but 
ere 1 seek him 1 would know somewhat from thee, Tibbie. What 
like is he?” 

” 1 cannot tell, sir,” said Tibbie. ‘‘ The canons are rich and 
many, and a poor smith like me wots little of their fashions.” 

‘‘ Is it trite,” again asked Ambrose, ‘‘ that the dean — he who spake 
those words 3 'esterday — hath a school here for young boys?” 

‘‘Ay. And agood and mild school it be, bringing them up in 
the name and nurture of the Holy Child Jesus, to whom it is dedi- 
cated.” 

‘‘ Then they are taimht this same doctrine?” 

‘‘ I trow they be. They say the dean loves them like the children 
of his old age, and declares that they shall be made in love with lioly 
lore by gentleness rather than severity.” 

‘‘ Is it likely that this, same Alworthy could obtain me entrance 
there?” 

‘‘ Alack, sir, 1 fear me thou art too old. 1 see none but little lads 
among them. Didst thou come to London with that intent?” 

” Nay, for 1 only wish to-da}" that there was such a school. 1 
came with 1 scarce know what purpose, save to see Stephen safely 
bestow’ed, and then to find some way ot learning myself. JMoi'eover, 
a change seems to have come on me, as though 1 had hitherto been 
walking in a dream.” 

Tibbie nodded, and Ambrose, sitting there in the dark, was moved 
to pour forth all his heart, the experience of many an ardent soul in 
those spirit searching days. Growing up happily under the care of 


G4 TTTE ATIMOFTIER’S RRENTirES, 

the simple monks of Beaulieu he had never looked beyond their 
some\Adiat mechanical routine, accepted everything implicitly' and 
gone on acquiring knowledge with the receptive spirit hut dormant 
thought of studious boydiood as yet uuawakened, thinking that the 
studious, clerical life to which every one destined him would only 
be a continuation of the same, as indeed it had been to his master. 
Father Simon. TSot that Ambrose expressed this, bey^^ond saying, 
“ They are good and holy men, and I thought all were like them, 
and fear that w'as all!” 

Then came death, for the first time nearly touching and affecting 
the youth, and making his soul yearn after further depths, which 
he might y'et have found in the peace of the good old men, and the 
holy rites and doctrine that they preserved; but before there w.'is 
time for these things to find their way into the wounds of his spirit, 
his expulsion from home had sent him forth to see another side of 
monkish and clerkly life. 

Father Shoveller, kindly as he was, was a mere yeoman with 
nothing spiritual about him; the monks of Hyde w'ere, the younger, 
gay comrades, only trying how loosely^ they^ could sit to their vows, 
the elder, churlish and avaricious; even the 'Warden of Elizabeth 
College Avas little more than a student. And in London, fresh 
phases had revealed themselves; the pomp, state, splendor and 
luxury'^ of Archbishop Wolsey’s house had been a shock to tire lad’s 
ideal of a bishop, drawn from the saintly biographies he had studied 
at Beaulieu; and he had but to keep his ears open to hear endless 
scandals about the mass-priests, as they were called, since they were 
at this time very"^ unpopular in London, and in many cases deservedly 
so. Everything that the boy had hitherto thought the way of holi- 
ness and salvation seemed invaded by evil and danger, and under 
the bondage of death, wdiose terrible dance continued to Haunt him. 

”1 saw it, 1 saw it,” he said, ‘‘all over those halls at Tork 
House. 1 seemed to behold the grisly' shape standing t)ehiud one 
and another, as they' ate and laughed; and wdien the archbishop and 
his priests and the king came in it seemed only to make the pageant 
complete! Only now and then could 1 recall those blessed w'ords, 
‘ Ye are free indeed.’ Hid he say from the bondage of death?” 

‘‘ Yes,” said Tibbie, ‘‘into the glorious freedom of God’s chil- 
dren.” 

‘‘ Thou know\st it. Thou knowst it, Tibbie. It seems to me that 
life is no life, but living death wMthout that freedom! Arfd 1 imist 
hear of it, and know w'hether it is mine, y'ea, and Stephen's, and all 
whom 1 love. O Tibbie, 1 would bear my' bread rather than not have 
that freedom ever before mine ey'es.” 

‘‘ Hold it fast! Hold it fast, dear sir,” said Tibbie, holding out his 
hands with tears in his eyes, and his face working in a manner that 
happily Ambrose could not see. 

‘‘ But how — how? The barefoot friar said that for an Ave a day 
our Blessed Lady will drag us back from purgatory. 1 saw her on 
the wall of her chapel at Winchester saving a robber knight from 
the sea, yea, and a thief from the gallows; but that is not being 
free.” , 

‘‘ Fond inventions of pardon mongers,” muttered Tibbie. 


THE armourer’s PRENTICES. C5 

“ And is one not freewhen the priest hath assoilzied him?” added 
Ambrose. 

“If, and ii — ” said Tibbie. ‘‘But none shall make me (row 
that shrift in words, without heart-sorrow for sin, and the Latin 
heard with no thought of Him that bore the guilt, can set the sinner 
free. ’Tis none other than the dean sets forth, ay, and the book 
that I have here. 1 thank my God,” he stood up and took oft his 
cap reverently, ‘‘ that He hath opened the eyes of another!” 

His tone was such that Ambrose could have believed him some 
devout, almost inspired hermit rather than the acute skillful artisan 
he appeared at other times; and in fact, Tibbie Steelman, like many 
another craftsman of those days, led a double life, the outer one tliat 
of the ordinary workman, the inner one devoted to those lights that 
were shining unveiled and new to many; and especially here in the 
heart of the city, partly from the influence of Dean Colet’s sermons 
and catechizings at St. Paul’s, but far more from the inteicoar.se 
with the Low Countries and Germany whence the Lutheran litera- 
ture — as yet, in 1515, only matter of controversy and curiosity — was 
smuggled in large quantities among the Londoners. The ordinary 
clergy looked at it with horror, but the intelligent and thoughtful of 
the burgher and craftsman classes studied it with a passionate fervor 
which might hare sooner broken out and in more perilous forms 
save for the guidance it received in the truly Catholic and open- 
spirited public teachings of Colet, in which he persisted in spite of 
the opposition of his brother clergy. 

Not that as yet the inquirers had in the slightest degree broken 
with the system of the Church, or with her old traditions. T'hey 
were only loginning to see the light that had been veiled from them, 
and to endeavor to. clear the fountain from the mire that had fouled 
it; and there was as yet no reason to believe that the aspersions con- 
tinually made against the mass-priests and the friars were more than 
the chronic grumblings of Englishmen, who had found the same 
faults with them for the last two hundred years. 

‘‘And what wouldst thou do, young sir?” presently inquired 
Tibbie. 

‘‘ That 1 came to ask thee, good Tibbie. 1 would w'ork to the 
best of my power in any craft so 1 may hear those words and gain 
the key to all 1 have hitherto learned, unheeding as one in a dream. 
My purpose had been to be a scholar and a cUrk, but 1 must see 
mine own way, and know whither I am being carried ere 1 can go 
further.” 

I’ibble writhed and wriggled himself about in consideration. “ I 
would 1 wist how to take thee to the dean himself,” he said, ‘‘ but 
1 am but a poor man, and his doctrine is ‘ new wine in old bottles ’ 
to the master, though he be a right good man after his lights. See 
now. Master Ambrose, me seemeth that thou hadst best take thy let- 
ter first to this same priest. It may be that he can prefer thee to 
some post about the minster. Canst sing?” 

‘‘ 1 could once, but my voice is naught at this present. If 1 could 
but be a servitor at St. Paul’s School!” 

“ It might be that the will which hath led thee so far hath that 
post in store for thee, so bear the letter to Master Alworthy. And 
if he fail thee, wouldst thou think scorn of aiding a friend of mine 
8 


00 THE AEMOUEEE’s PRE2^TICES. 

who workcth a printing-press in "Warwick Inner Yard? Thou wilt 
find him at his place in Paternoster Row, hard by St. Paul’s. ITe 
needeth one who is clerk enough to read the Latin, and the craft 
being a new one ’tls fenced by none of those prentice laws that would 
bar the way to thee else Adhere, at thj- years.” 

“ 1 should dwell among books!” 

“ Yea, and holy hooks, that bear on the one matter dear to the 
true heart. It might serve thee and Lucas Hansen at the sign of the 
Winged Staff well till thou liast settled thine heart, and then it may 
be the way would be opened to studj' at Oxford or at Cambridge, so 
that thou couldst expound the faith to others.” 

“ Good Tibbie, kind Tibbie, 1 knew thou couldst aid me! Wilt 
thou speak to this Master Hansen for me?” 

Tibbie, however, held that it was more seemly that Ambrose 
should first try his fate with Master Alworthy, but in case of this 
not succeedluiT, he promised to write a billet that would secure atten- 
tion from Lucas Hansen. ‘‘ 1 warn thee, however, that he is Low 
Hutch,” he added, ” though he speaketh English well.” He would 
gladly have gone with the youth, and at anj'^ other time might have 
been sent by his master, but the whole energies of the Dragon would 
be taken up for the next week by preparations for the tilting- match 
at court, and Tibbie could not be spared for another working hour. 

Ambrose, as he rose to bid his friend irood-night, could not help 
saying that he marveled that one such as he could turn his mind to 
such vanities iis the tilt-yard required. 

” Nay,” said Tibbie, ‘‘ ’twas the craft 1 was bred to — yea, and 1 
have a good master; and the Apostle Paul himself— as I’ve heard a 
preacher say — bade men continue in the state wherein they were, 
and not be curious to chop and change. Who knoweth whether in 
God’s sight, all our wais and policies be no more than the games of 
the tilt-yard. Moreover, Paul himself made these ver}"- weapons read 
as good a sermon as the dean himself. Didst never hear of the 
shield of faith, and helmet of salvation, and breast-plate of righteous- 
ness? So, if thou comest to Master Hasten, and provest worthy of 
his trust, thou wilt hear more, ay, and maybe read too thyself, and 
send forth the good seed to others,” he murmured to himself, as he 
guided his visitor across the moonlit court up the stairs to the cham- 
ber where Stephen lay fast asleep. 


CHAPTER X. 

TWO VOCATIONS. 

“ The smith a miphty man is he 
Witli large and sinewy hands; 

And the muscles of liis brawny arms 
Are strong as iron bands.” 

Longfellow. 

Stephen’s first thought in the morning w’iis whether the ex voto 
effigy of poor Spring was put in hand, while Ambrose thought of 
Tibbie’s promised commendation to the printer. They both, how- 
ever, found their affairs must needs wait. Orders for weapons for 
the tilting-match had come in so thickly the day before that every 


THE AlLAlOUEEIl’s TltEHTICES. G7 

hand must be employed ou executing them, and the Dragon Court 
■was ringing again with the clang ot hammers and screech of grind- 
stones. 

Stephen, though not yet formally bound, was to enter on his ap- 
prentice life at once; and Ambrose was assured by Master Headley 
that it was of no use to repair to any of the dignified clergy of St. 
Paul’s before mid-day, and that he had better employ the time in 
writing to his elder brother respecting the fee. Materials were sup- 
plied to hini, and he used them so as to do credit to the monks of 
Beaulieu, in spite ot little Dennet spending every spare moment in 
watching his pen as it he were jierformingsome cabalistic operation. 
He was a long time about it. There were two letters to write, and 
the wording of them needed to be very careful, besides that the old 
court hand took more time to frame than the Italian current hand, 
and even thus, when dinner-time came, at ten o’clock, the house- 
hold was astonished to find that he had finished all that regarded 
Stephen, though he had left the letters open, until his own venture 
should have been made. 

Stephen flung himself down beside his brother hot and panting, 
shaking his shoulder-blades and declaring that his arms felt ready 
to drop out. He had been turning a grindstone ever since six o’clock. 
The two new apprentices had been set on to sharjrening the weapon 
points as all that they were capable of, and had been bidden by 
Smallbones to turn and hold alternately, but “ that oaf Giles Head- 
ley,” said Stephen, “ never ground but one lance, and made me go 
on turning, threatening to lay the butt about uiine ears if 1 slacked.” 

” The lazy lubber!” cried Ambrose. ‘‘ But did none see thee, or 
couldst not call out for redress?” 

” Thou art half a wench thyself, Ambrose, to think I’d complain. 
Besides, he stood on his rights as a master, and he is a big fellow.” 

‘‘ That’s true,” said Ambrose, ‘‘ and he might make it the worse 
for thee.” 

” 1 would 1 were as big as he,” sighed Stephen, ‘‘ I would soon 
show him w^hich was the better man.” 

Perhaps the grinding match had not been as unobserved as 
Stephen fancied, for on returning to work, Smallbones, who pre- 
sided over all the rougher parts of the business, claimed them both. 
He set Stephen to stand by him, sort out and hand him all the rivets 
needed for a suit of proof armor that hung on a frame, while he re- 
<l'iired Giles to straighten bars of iron heated to a white heat. Ere 
long Giles called out for Stephen to change places, to which Small- 
bones coolly replied, ” Turnabout is the rule here, master.” 

‘‘Even so,” replied Giles, ‘‘and I have been at work like this 
long enough, ay, and too long!” 

‘‘Thy turn was a matter of three hours this morning,” replied 
Kit — not coolly, for nobody was cool in his den, but with a brevity 
which provoked a laugh. 

‘‘1 shall see what my cousin the master saith!” cried Giles, in 
great wrath. 

” Ay, that thou wilt,” returned Kit, ‘‘ if thou dost loiter over thy 
business and hast not those bars ready when called for.” 

•‘ He never meant me to be put on work like this, witth a hammer 
that breaks mine arm,” 


G8 


THE AKMOUREll’s PRENTICES. 


“ What! crying out for that?” said Edmund Burgess, who had 
just come in to ask for a pair of tongs. “ What wouldst say to tlie 
big hammer that none can wield save Kit himself?” 

Giles felt there was no redress, and panted on, feeling as if he 
were melting away, and with a dumb, wild rage in his heart, that 
could get no outlet, for Smallbones was at least as much bigger 
than he, as he was than Stephen. Tibbie was meanwhile busy over 
the gilding and enameling of Buckingham’s magnificent plate armor 
in Kalian fashion, but he had found time to thrust into Ambrose’s 
liand an exceedingly small and curiously folded billet for Lucas 
Hansen, the printer, in case of need. ” He would be found at the 
sign of the Winged Staff in Paternoster Row,” said Tibbie, “or if 
not there himself, there would be his servant who would direct Am- 
brose to the place where the Dutch printer lived and worked.” No 
one was at leisure to show the lad the way, and he set out with a 
strange feeling of solitude, as his path began decisively to be away 
from that of his brother. 

He did not find much difficulty in discovering the quadrangle on 
the south side of the minster where the minor canon lived near the 
deanery; and the porter, a stout lay brother, pointed out to him the 
doorway belonging to blaster Alworthy. He knocked, and a young 
man with a tonsured head but a bloated face opened it. Ambrose 
explained that he had brought a letter from the Warden of St, Eliza- 
beth’s College at Winchester. 

‘‘ Give it here,” said the young man. 

” 1 would give it to his reverence himself,” said Ambrose. 

” His reverence is taking his aftei-dinner nap and may not be dis- 
turbed,” said the man. 

‘‘ Then 1 will wait, ’ said Ambrose. 

The door was shut in his face, but it was the shady side of the 
court, and he sat down on a bench and waited. After full an hour 
the door was opened, and the canon, a good-natured-looking man, 
in a square cap, and gown and cassock of the finest cloth, came 
slowly out. He had evidently heard nothing of the message, and 
was taken by surprise when Ambrose, doffing his cap and bowing 
low, gave him the greeting of the Warden of St. Elizabeth’s, and the 
letter. 

‘‘Hum! Ha! My good friend— Fielder— 1 remember. He was 
always a scholar. So he hath sent thee here with his commenda- 
tions. W hat should I do with all the idle country lads that come un 
to choke up London, and feed the plague? Yet stay — that lurdane 
Bolt is getting intoleiably lazy and insolent, and methinks he robs 
me. What canst do, thou stripling?” 

‘‘ 1 can read Latin, sir, and know the Greek alphabeta.” 

‘‘ Tush, I want no scholar more than enough to serve my mass. 
Canst sing?” 

‘‘ Not now; but 1 hope to do so again.” 

‘‘ When 1 rid me of Bolt there — and there’s an office under the 
sacristan that he might fill as well as another knave— the fellow 
might do for me well enow as a body servant,” said Mr. Alworthy, 
speaking to himself. ‘‘ He would brush my gow'us and make my 
bed, and 1 might perchance trust him with my marketings, and by 


69 


THE ARMOUKEH’s PREXTICES. 

and by there might be some office for him when he grew saucy and 
idle. 1 prove him on mine old comrade’s word.” 

“ Sir,” said Ambrose, respectfully, ” what 1 seek for is occasion 
for study. I had hoped you could speak to the dean, Dr. John Colet, 
for some post at his school.” 

‘‘ Boy,” said Alworthy, “ 1 thought thee no such fool. Why crack 
thy brains with study when 1 can show thee a surer path to esise 
and preferment. But I see thou art too proud to do an old man a 
service. Thou writes! thyself gentleman, forsooth, and high blood 
will not stoop.” 

‘‘ Not so, sir,” returned Ambrose, ” I would work in any way so 
I could study the humanities, and bear the dean pieach. Cannot 
you commend me to his school?” 

” Ha!” exclaimed the canon, ” this is your sort, is it? I’ll have 
naught to do with it! Preaching, preaching Every idle child’s 
head is agog on preaching nowadays! A plague on it! Why can’t 
master dean leave it to the black friars, whose vocation ’tis, and not 
cumber us with his sermons for ever, and set every lazy lad think- 
ing he must needs run after them? No, no, my good boy, take my 
advice. Thou shalt have two good bellyfuls a day, all my cast 
gowns, and a pair of shoes by the year, with a groat a lyonth if 
thou wilt keep mine house, bring in my meals, and the like, and by 
and by, so thou art a good lad, and runst not after these new-fangled 
preachments which lead but to heresy, and set folk racking their 
brains about sin and such trash, we’ll get thee shorn and into minor 
orders, and who knows what good preferment thou mayst not win in 
due time!” 

” Sir, 1 am beholden to you, but my mind is set on study.” 

” What kin art thou to a fool!” cried the minor canon, so start- 
ling Ambrose that he had almost answered, and turning to another 
ecdesiastic whose siesta seemed to have ended about the same time. 
‘‘Look at this varlet. Brother Cloudesley I Would you believe it? 
He comes to me with a letter from mine old friend, in consideration 
of which I offer him that saucy lubber Bolt’s place, a gown of mine 
own a 3 'ear, meat and prefeiment, and lo you, he tells me all he 
wants is to study Greek, forsooth, and hear the dean’s sermons!” 

The other canon shook his head in dismay at such arrant folly. 
” Young stripling, be warned,” he said. " Know what is good for 
thee. Greek is the tongue of heresy.” 

‘‘How may that be, reverend sir,” said Ambrose, ‘‘when the 
holy Apostles and the fathers spake and w'rote in the Greek?” 

‘‘ Waste not thy time on him, brother,” said JVIr. Alworthy. ‘‘ He 
will find out his error when his pride and his Greek forsooth have 
brought him to fire and fagot.” 

‘‘ Ay! ayl” added Cloudesley. ‘‘ The dean with his Dutch fiiend 
and his sermons, and liis new grammar and accidence, is sowing 
heretics as thick as groundsel.” 

Wherewith the two canons of the old school waddled arm 

in arm, and Bolt put out his head, leered at Ambrose, and bade him 
shog off, and not come sneaking after other folk’s shoes. 

Sooth to say, Ambrose was relieved by his reiectiou. if he w’ere 
not to obtain admission in any capacity to St. Paul’s School, he felt 
more drawn to Tibbie’s friend the printer; for the self-seeking 


THE armourer’s RREXTICES. 


70 

luxurious habits into which so man}' of the beneficed clergy had 
fallen were repulsive to him, and his whole soul thirsted alter that 
new revelation, as it were, which C’olet’s sermon had made to him. 
Yet the word heresy was terrible and confusing, and a doubt came 
over him whether he might not be forsaking the right path, and be 
lured aside by false lights. 

lie would think it out before he committed himself. Where 
should he do so in peace? He thought of the great minster, but the 
nave was full of a surging multitude, and there was a loud hum of 
voices proceeding from it, which took from him all inclination to 
find his way to the quieter and inner portions of the sanctuary. 

Then he recollected the little Pardon (’hurch, where he had seen 
the Dance of Death on the walls; and crossing the burial ground he 
entered, and, as he expected, found it empty, since the hours for 
masses for the dead were now past. He knelt down on a step, re- 
peated the sext office, in warning for which the bells were chiming 
all round, covering his face with his hands, and thinking himself back 
to Beaulieu, then, seating himself on a step, leaning against the wall, 
he tried to think out whether to give himself up to the leadings of 
the new light that had broken on him, or whether to wrench himself 
from it. Was this, which seemed to him truth and deliterance, 
verily the heresy respecting which rumors had come to horrify the 
country convents? If he had only heard of it from Tibbie Wiy- 
mouth, he would have doubted, in spite of its power over him, but 
he had heard it from a man, wise, good, and high in place, like 
Dean Colet. Yet to his further perplexity, his uncle had spoken 
of Colet as jesting at W olsey's table. What course should he take? 
Could he bear to turn away from that which di'cw his soul so power- 
fully, and return to the bounds which seemed to him to be grown so 
narrow, but which he was told were safe? Now that fStephen was 
settled. It was open to him to return to St. Elizabeth’s College, but 
the young soul within him revolted against the repetition of what 
had become to him unsatisfying, unless illumined by the brightness 
he seemed to have glimpsed at. 

But Ambrose had gone through much unwonted fatigue of late, 
and w’hile thus musing he fell asleep, with his head against the wall, 
lie was half wakened by the sound of voices, and presently became 
aware that two persons were examining the walls, and comparing 
the paintings with some others, which one of them had evidently 
seen. If he had known it, it w'as with the Dance of Death on the 
bridge of Lucerne. 

“ 1 question,” said a voice that Ambrose had heard before, 
‘‘ whether these terrors be wholesome for men’s souls.” 

” For priests’ pouches,- they be,” said the other, with something 
of a foreign accent. 

“ Alack, when shall we see the day when the hope of paradise and 
dread of purgatory shall be no longer made the tools of priestly gain; 
and hatred of sin taught to these poor folk, instead of servile dread 
of punishment.” 

Have a care, my Colet,” answered the yellow-bearded foreigner ; 
” thou art already in ill odor with those same men in authority; and 
though a dean’s stall be fenced from the episcopal crook, yet there 
is a rod at Borne which can reach even thither.” 


THE AHMOURER S RREHTICES. 


71 

“ 1 tell thee, clear Erasmus, thou art too timid; 1 were well con- 
tent to leave house and goods, yea, to go to prison oi to death, could 
1 but bring home to one soul, for which Christ died, the truth and 
hope in every one ot those prayers and creeds that om poor folk are 
taught to patter as a senseless charm.” 

“ These are strange times,” returned Erasmus. “ Methinks 
yonder phantom, be he skeleton or angel, will have snatched both 
of us away ere we behoJd the lull issue either ot thy preachings, or 
my Greek Testament, or ot our More’s Utopian images. Dost tnou 
not feel as though we were like children who have set some mighty 
engine in motion, like the great water wheels in my native home, 
which, whirled by the flowing streams of time and opinion, may 
break up the whole foundations, and destroy the oneness of the 
editice?” 

” It may be so,” returned Colet. “What read we? ‘The net 
brake ’ even in the Master’s sight, while still afloat on the sea. It was 
only on the shore that the hundred and fifty-three, all good and 
sound, were drawn to His feet.” 

” And,” returned Erasmus, ” I see wherefore thou hast made thy 
children at St. Paul’s one hundred and fifty and three.” 

The two fi lends were passing out. Their latter speeches had scarce 
been understood by, Ambrose, even if he heard them, so full was 
he of conflicting feelings, now ready to cast himself before their feet, 
and intreat the dean to help him to guidance, now withheld by 
bashfulness, unwillingness to interrupt, and ingenuous shame at ap- 
pearing like an eavesdropper toward such dignified and venerable 
personages. Had he obeyed his first impulse, mayhap his career 
had been made safer and easier for him, but it was while shyness 
chained his limbs and tongue that the dean and Erasmus quitted the 
chapel, and the opportunity ot accosting them had slipped away. 

Their half comprehended words had however decided him in the 
part he should take, making him sure that Colet was not controvert- 
ing the formularies of the Church, but drawing out those meanings 
which in repetition by rote were well nigh forgotten. It was as if 
his course were made clear to him. 

He was determined to take the means which most readily presented 
themselves of liearmg Colet; and leaving the chapel, he bent his 
steps to the Row which his book-loving eye had already marked. 
Flanking the great cathedral on the north, was the row of small 
open stalls devoted to the sale of books, or objects of devotion,” 
all so arranged that the open portion might be cleared, and the 
stock-in-lrade locked up, if not carried away. Each stall had its 
own sign, most of them sacred, such as' the Lamb and Flag, the 
Scallop Shell, or some patron saint, but classical emblems were 
oddly intermixed, such as Minerva’s (Egis, Pegasus, and the Lyre 
ot Apollo. The sellers, some middle-aged men, some lads, stretched 
out tneir arms with their wares to attract the passengers in the street, 
and did not fail to beset Ambrose. The more lively looked at his 
Lincoln green and shouted verses of ballads at him, fluttering broad 
sheets with verses on the lamentable fate ot Jane Shore, or Fair 
Rosamond, the same woodcut doing duty for both ladies, without 
mercy to their beauty. The schotastic judged by his face and step 
that he was a student,, and they flourished at him black bound copies 


72 


THE armourer’s PREHTTCES. 


of Virgilius Maro, and of Tull 3 ’’s Offices, while others, hoping that 
he was an incipient clerk, oftered breviaries, missals or portuaries, 
with the use of St. Paul’s, or of Sarum, or mayhap St. Austin’s 
Confessions. He made his way along, with his eye diligently heed- 
ful of the signs, and at last recognized the \V inged Staff, or caduceus 
of Hermes, over a stall where a couple of boys in blue caps and 
gowns, and yellow stockings, were making a purchase of a small 
grave-looking, eldetlj’’ but bright cheeked man, whose yellow hair 
and beard were getting intermingled with gray. They were evi- 
dently those St. Paul’s School boys whom Ambrose envied so much, 
and as they finished their bargaining and ran away together, Am- 
biose advanced with a salutation, asked if he did not see Master 
Lucas Hansen, and gave him the note with the commendations of 
Tibbie Steelman the armorer. 

He was answered with a ready nod and “yea, yea,” as the old 
man opened the billet and cast his eyes over it; then scanning Am- 
brose from head to foot, said with some amazement, “ But you are 
of gentle blood, j'oungsir.” 

“ 1 am,” said Ambrose; “ but gentle blood needs at times to work 
for bread, and Tibbie let me hope that 1 might find both livelihood 
for the body and for the soul witJi you, sir.” 

“ Is it so?” asked the printer, his face lighting up. “ Art thou 
willing to labor and toil, and give up hope of fee and honor, if so 
thou mayst win the truth?” 

Ambrose folded his hands with a gesture of earnestness, and 
Lucas Hansen said, “ Bless thee, mj^ son! JMethinks 1 can aid tliee 
in the quest, so thou canst lay aside,” and here his voice grew 
sharper and more peremptory, “ all thy gentleman’s aiis and follies, 
and serve — a}^ serve and obey.” 

“ 1 trust so,” returned Ambrose; “ my brother is even now be- 
coming prentice to Master Giles Headley, and we hope to live as 
honest men by the work of our hands and brains.” 

“ 1 forgot that you English herren are not so puffed up with 
pride and scorn like our Dutch nobles,” returned the printer. 
“ Canst live sparingly, and lie hard, and see that thou keepsl the 
house clean, not like these English swine?” 

“ 1 hope so,” said Ambrose, smiling; “ but 1 have an uncle and 
aunt, and they would have me lie ever}' night at their house beside 
the Temple gardens.” 

“ What is thine uncle?” 

“ He hath a post in the meine of my Lord Archbishop of York,” 
said Ambrose, blushing and hesitating a little. “ He cometh to-and 
fro to his wdfe, who dwdls wdth her old father, doing fine laven- 
der’s work for the lawyer folk therein.” 

It was somewhat galling that this should be the moat respectable 
occupation that could be put forw^ard, but Lucas Hanseu was evi- 
dently reassured b^'^ it. He next asked wdiether Ambrose could read 
Latin, putting a book into his hand as he did so: Ambrose read. and 
construed readily, explaining that he had been trained at Beauiieu. 

“ That is well!” said the printer; “ and hast thou any Greek?” 

“ Only the alphabeta,” said Ambrose, “ 1 made that out from a 
book at Beaulieu, but Father Simon knew no more, and there was 
naught to study from.” 


THE AR-MOUKEr’s PRENTICES. 73 

“Even so,” replied Hansen, “but little as thou knowst, ’tis as 
much as 1 can hope for from any who will aid me in my craft. 
’Tis 1 that, as thou hast seen, furnish for the use of the children at 
the dean’s school of St. Paul’s. The best and foremost scholars of 
them are grounded in their Greek, that being the tongue wheccin'the 
Holy Gospels were first writ. Hitherto I have had to get me books 
for their use from Holland, whither they are brought from Basle, 
but I have had sent me from Hamburg a fount of type of the Greek 
character, whereby I hope to print at home, the accidence, and may- 
hap the ‘ Dialogues ’ of Plato, and it might even be the sacred 
Gospel itself, which the great doctor. Master Erasmus, is even now 
collating from the best authorities in the universities.'’ 

Ambrose’s eyes kindled with unmistakable delight. “ You have 
the accidence!’’ he exclaimed. “ Then could I study the tongue even 
while working tor you! Sir, 1 would do my best! It is the very 
opportunity 1 seek.” 

“Fair and softly,” said the printer with something of a smile. 
“ Thou art new to cheapening and bargaining, my fair lad. Thou 
hast spoken not one word of The wage.” 

“ I recked not of that,” said Ambrose. “ ’Tis true, 1 may not 
burden mine uncle and aunt, but verily, sir, 1 would live on the 
humblest tare that will keep body and soul together so that 1 may 
have such an opportunity.” 

“ How knowst thou what the opportunity may be?” returned 
Lucas, dryly. “ Thou art but a babe! Some one should have a 
care of thee! If 1 set thee to stand here all day and cry what d’ye 
lack? or to carr}’’ bales of books twixt this and Warwick Inner Yard 
thou wouldst have no ground to complain.” 

“Nay, sir,” returned Ambrose, “1 wot that Tibbie Steelman 
would never send me to one who would not truly give me what 1 
need.” 

“ Tibbie Steelman is verily one of the few who are both called 
and chosen,” replied Lucas, “ and 1 think thou art the same so far 
as green youth may be judged, since thou art one who will follow 
the Word into the desert, and never ask for the loaves and fishes. 
Nevertheless, 1 will take none advantajre of thy youth and zeal, but 
thou Shalt first behold what thou shalt have to do for me, and then 
it it still likes thee, 1 will see thy kindred. Hast no father?’" 

Ambrose explained, and at that moment Master Ilamsen’s boy 
made his appearance, returning from an errand; the stall was left m 
his charge, while the master took Ambrose with him into the pre- 
cincts of what had once been the splendid and 'hospitable mansion 
of the great king maker Warwick, but was now broken up into end- 
less little tenements with their courts and streets, though the baronial 
ornaments and the arrangement still showed what the place had 
been. 

Entering beneath a wide archway, still bearing the sign of the 
Bear and Ragged Staff, Lucas led the way into what must have been 
one of the coTirts of offices, for it was surrounded with builiings and 
sheds of difierent heights and sizes, and had on one side a deep 
trough of stone, fed by a series of water taps intended for the use of 
the stables. The doors of one of these buildings was unlocked by 
Master Hansen, and Ambrose found himself in what had once per- 


74 


THE AKMOUREll’s TliENTlCES. 

haps been part of a stable, but had been partitioned off from the rest. 
There were two stalls, oneservingthe Dutchman for his living-room, 
the other for his woikshop. In one corner stood a white earthenware 
stove — so new a spectacle to the young forester that he supposed it to 
be the printing press. A table shining with rubbing, a w’ooden chair, 
a couple of stools, a tew vessels, mirrors for brightness, some chests 
and corner cupboards, a bed shutting up like a bos, and likewise 
highly ix)lished, completed the furniture, all arranged with the mar- 
velous orderliness and neatness of the nation. A curtain shut off 
ttie opening to the other stall, wdiere stood a machine with a huge 
screw, turned by leverage. Bo.xes of type and piles of paper sur- 
rounded It, and Ambrose stood and looked at it w'itli a sort of awe- 
struck wonder -and respect as the great fount of wisdom. Hansen 
showed him w'hat his w'ork would be, in setting up type, and by 
and by coirecting after the first proof. The machine could only 
print four pages at a time, and for this operation the whole strength 
of the establishment was required. Moreover, Master Hansen 
bound, as well as printed his books. Ambrose w’as by no means 
daunted. As long as he might read as w’ell as print, and w hile he 
had Sundays at St. Paul’s to look to, he asked no more — except, 
indeed, that his gentle blood stirred at the notion of acting salesman 
in the book-stall, and Master Hansen assured him with a smile that 
M ill "Wherry, the other boy, would do that better than either of 
them, and that he would be entirely employed here. 

The methodical master insisted, however, on making terms with 
the boy’s relations; and with some misgivings on Ambrose’s part, 
the two— since business hours were almost over — walked together to 
the Temple and to the little house, where Perronel was ironing under 
her window. 

Ambrose need not have doubted. The Dutch blood on either side 
was stirred; and the good housewife commanded the little printer’s 
respect as he looked round on a kitchen as tidy as it it were in his 
own country. And the bargain was struck that Ambrose Birken- 
holt should serve Master Hansen for his meals and two pence a 
w'eek, wiiile he was to sleep at the little house of Mistress Randall, 
who would keep his clothes and linen in order. 

And thus it was that both Ambrose and Stephen Birkenholt had 
found their vocations for the present, and both w'ere fervent in 
them. IMaster Headley pshawed a little when he heard that Am- 
brose had engaged himself to a printer and a foreigner; and when 
he was told it was to a friend of Tibbie’s, only shook his head, saying 
that Tib’s only fault was dabbling in matters of divinity, as if a 
plain man could not be saved without them! However, he respected 
the lad for having knowm his owm mind and not hung about in idle- 
ness, and he had no opinion of clerks, whether monks or priests. 
Indeed, the low esteem in which the clergy as a class w'ere held in 
London was one of the very evil signs of the times. Ambrose w'as 
invited to dine and sup at the Dragon Court every Sunday and holi- 
day, and he w'as glad to accept, since the hospitality was so free, 
and he thus was able to see his brother and Tibbie; besides that, it 
prevented him from burdening Mistress Randall, w'hom he really 
liked, though he could not see her husband, either in his motley or 
his plain garments, without a shudder of repulsion. 


THE ARMOFRETl's PTlEXTICEg. 7o 

Ambrose found that setting up type had not much more to do with 
the study of new books than Stephen’s turning tlie grindstone had 
with fighting in the lists; and the mistakes he made in spelling from 
right to left, and in confounding the letters, made him despair, and 
prepare for any amount of just indignation from his master; but he 
found on the contrary that blaster Hansen had never bad a pupil 
who made so few blunders on the first trial, and augured well of him 
from such a beginning. Paper was too costly, and pressure too ditli- 
cult, for many proofs to be struck off, but' llausen could read aiul 
correct his type as it stood, and assured Ambrose that practice would 
soon give him the same power; and the correction was thus com- 
pleted, when Will Wherry, a big, stout fellow, came in to dinner — 
the stall being left during that time, as nobody came for books dur- 
ing the dinner-hour, and Hansen, having an understanding with his 
next neighbor, by which they took turns to keep guard against 
thieves. 

The master and the two lads dined together on the contents of a 
caldron, where pease and pork had been simmering together on the 
stove all the morning. Their strength was then united to work the 
press and strike off a sheet, which the master scanned, finding only 
one error in it. It was a portion of Lilly’s “ Grammar,” and Am- 
brose regarded it with mingled pride and delight, though he longed 
to go further into those deeper revelations for the sake of which he 
had come here. 

blaster Hansen then left the youths to strike off a couple of hun- 
dred sheets, after wdiich they were to wash the types and re-arrange 
the letters in the compartments in order, whilst he returned to the 
stall. The ciislomef's requiring his personal attention were generally 
late ones. When all this was accomplished, and the pot pul on again 
in preparation for supper, the lads might use the short time that re- 
mained as they would, and Hansen himself showed Ambrose a shelf 
of books concealed by a blue curtain, whence he might read. 

"Will Wherry shelved unconcealed amazement that this should be 
the taste of his companion. He himself hated the whole business, 
and would never have taken to it, but that he had too many brothers 
for all to take to the water on the Thames, and their mother was loo 
poor to apprentice them, and needed the small weekly pay the 
Dutchman gave him. He seemed a good-natured, dull fellow, 
whom no doubt Hansen had hired for the sake of the strong arm, 
developed by generations of oarsmen upon the river. What he 
specially disliked was that his master was a foreigner. The whole 
court swarmed with foreigners, he said, with the utmost disgust, ius 
if they rvere noxious Insects. They made provisions dear, and under- 
sold honest men, and he wondered the lord mayor did not see to li, 
and drive them out. ble did not so much object to the Dutch, but 
the Spaniards — no words could express his honor of them. 

By and by, Ambrose going out to fetch some water from the con- 
duit. found standing by it a figure entirely new to him. It was a 
young girl of some twelve or fourteen years old, in the round w'hite 
cap worn by all of her age and sex, but from beneath it hung down 
two thick plaits of the darkest hair he had ever seen, and though the 
dress was of the ordinary dark serge with a colored apron, it rvas 
put on with an air that made it look like some strange and beautiful 


76 


THE armourer’s PREHTICES. 

costume on the slender, lithe little form. The vermilion apron was 
further trimmed with a narrow border ot white, edged again with 
deep blue, and it chimed in with the bright coral earrings and neck- 
lace. As Ambrose came forward the creature tried to throw a crimson 
handkerchief over her head, and ran into the shelter of another door, 
but not before Ambrose had seen a pair of large dark eyes so like 
tho.se ot a terrified fawn that they seemed to carry him back to the 
Forest. Going back amazed he asked his companion who the girl he 
had seen could have been. 

Will stared. “ I trow you mean the old blackamoor sword-cutler’s 
wench. Pie is one of tho.se pestilent strangers. An ’Ebrew Jew who 
worships Mahound and is too bad for the Spanish folk themselves.” 

This rather startled Ambrose, though he knew enough to see that 
tne accusations could not both be true, but he forgot it in the delight, 
when Will pronounceil the work done, of drawing back the curtain 
and feasting his eyes upon the black backs of the books and the 
black-letter brochures that laj"^ by them. There were scarcely thirty, 
yet he gloated on them as on an inexhaustible store, while Will, 
whistling wonder at his taste, opined that since some one was there 
to look after the stove, and the iron pot on it, he might go out and 
have a turn at ball with Hob and Mai tin. 

Ambrose was glad to be left to go over his coming feast. There 
was Latin, English, and, alas! baffling Dutch. Higher Ijow it was 
all the same to him. What excited his curiosity most was the Thesis 
of Dr. Martinus Luther, of Wittenburg — in Latin of course, and 
that he could easily read — but almost equally exciting was a Greek 
and Latin vocabulary, or again, a very thin book in which he recog- 
nized the New Testament in the Vulgate. He had heard chapters of 
it read from the graceful st9ne pulpit overhanging the refector}’’ at 
Beaulieu, and, of course, the Gospels and Epistles at mass, but they 
had been read with little expression and no attention; and that Sun- 
day’s discourse had tilled him with eagerness to look further; but the 
mere reading the titles of the books was pleasure enough for the day, 
and his master was at home before he had fixed his mind on any- 
thing. Perhaps this was as well, for Lucas advised him what to be- 
gin with and how to divide his studies so as to gain a knowledge of 
the Greek, his great ambition, and also to read the Scripture. The 
master was almost as much delighted as the scholar, and it was not 
till the curfew was beginning to sound that Ambrose coula tear him- 
self away. It was stiil daylight, and the door of the next dwelling 
was open. There, sitting on the ground cross-legged, in an attitude 
such as Ambrose had never seen, w’as a magnificent old man, with a 
huge long white beard, wearing, indeed, the usual dress ot a Lon- 
doner ot the lower class, but the gown flowed round him in a grand 
and patriarchal manner, corresponding with his noble, somewhat 
aquiline features, and behind him, Ambrose thought he caught a 
glimpse of the shy fawn he had seen in the morning. 


THE armourer’s PRENTICES. 


Ilf 


CHAPTER XI. 

AY DI ME GRANADA. 

“ In sooth, it was a thing to weep 
If then as now the level plain 
Beneath was spreading like the deep, 

The broad unruffled main. 

If like a watch tower of the sun 
Above, the Alpuxarras rose. 

Streaked, when the dying day was done. 

With evening’s roseate snows!” 

Archbishop Trench. 

When Mary Tudor, released by death from her first dreary mar- 
riage, contracted for her brother’s pleasure, had appeased his wrath 
at her second marriage made to please herself, Henry Vlll. was only 
too glad to mark his assent by all manner of festivities; and English 
chroniclers, instead of recording battles and politics, had onl}”^ to 
write ot pageantries and tournaments during that merry May of the 
year 1515— a May, be it remembered, which, thanks to the old style, 
was at least ten days nearer to midsummer than our present ii^nth. 

How the two queens and all their court had gone a-maying on 
Shooter’s Hill, ladies and horses poetically disguised and labeled 
with sweet summer titles, was only a nine days’ wonder when the 
Birkenholts had come to London, but Ihe approaching tournament at 
Westminster on the Whitsun holiday was the great excitement to 
the whole population, for, with all its faults, the court of blufi King 
Hal was thoroughly genial, and every one, gentle and simple, might 
participate in his pleasures. 

Seats were reserved at the lists for the city dignitaries and their 
families, and though old [Mistress Headley professed that she ought 
to have done with such vanities, she could not forbear from going to 
see that her son was not too much encumbered with the care of little 
Dennet, and that the child herself ran into no mischief. Master 
Headley himself grumbled and sighed, but he pul himself into his 
scarlet gown, holding that his presence was a befitting attention to 
the king, glad to gratify his little daughter, and not without a desire 
to see how his workmanship — good English ware — held out against 
“ mail and plate of Milan steel,” the fine armor brought home from 
France by the new Duke of Suffolk. Giles donned his best in the 
expectation ot sitting in the places of honor as one of the family, and 
was greatly disgusted when Kit Smallbones observed, ‘‘ What's all 
that bravery for? The tilting-match quotha? Ha! ha! my j’oung 
springald, if thou see it at all, thou must be content to gaze as thou 
canst from the armorers’ tent, if Tibbie there chooses to be cumbered 
with a useless lubber like thee.” 

” I always sat with my mother when there were matches at Clar- 
endon,” muttered Giles, who had learned at least that it was of no 
use to complain of Smallbones’s plain speaking. 

” If folks cocUer malapert lads at Sarum we know better here,” 
was the answer. 

” 1 shall ask the master, my kin'^man,” returned the youth. 


78 


THE AEMOUREr's PRENTICES. 


But he got little by his move. IVlaster Headley told him, not un- 
kindly, for he had some pily for the spoiled lad, that not the lord 
mayor himself would take his own son with him while yet an ap- 
prentice. Tibbie Steelman would indeed go to one of the attendants’ 
tents at the further end of the lists, where repairs to armor and weap- 
ons might he needed, and would take an assistant or two, but who 
they might be must depend on his own choice, and if Giles had any 
desire to go, he had better don his working dress. 

In fact, Tibbie meant to take Edmund Burgess, and one workman 
for use, and oue of the new apprentices for pleasure, letting them 
change in the middle of the day. The swagger of Giles actually for- 
feited for him the hrst turn, which — though he was no favorite with 
the men — would have been granted to his elder years and his rela- 
tionship to the master; but on his overbearing demand to enter the 
boat which was to cany down a little anvil and charcoal furnace, 
with a few (oo's, rivets, nails, and horseshoes, Tibbie coolly returned 
that he needed no such gay birds; but it Giles chose to be ready in 
his leathern coat when Stephen Birkeuholt came home at midday, 
mayhap he might change with him. 

Stephen went joyously in the plainest ot attire, though Tibbie in 
fur cap, grimy jerkin, and leathern apron was no elegant steersman; 
and Edmund, who was at the age of youthful foppery, shrugged his 
shoulders a little, and disguised the garments of the smithy with his 
best flat cap and newest mantle. 

They kept in the wake of the handsome barge which Master Head- 
ley shared with his friend and brother alderman, IMaster Hope the 
draper, whose young wife, in a beautiful black velvet hood and 
shining blue satin kirtle, was evidently petting Dennet to her heait’s 
content, though the little damsel never lost an opportunity of nod- 
ding to her friends in the plainer barge in the rear. 

The Tudor tilting-matches cost no lives, and seldom bioke bones. 
They were chiefly opportunities tor the display of brilliant enameled 
and gilt armor, at the very acme of cumbrous magnificence; and of 
equally gorgeous embroidery spread out over the vast expanse pro- 
vided by elephantine Flemish horses. Even if the weapons had not 
been purposely blunted, and if the champions had really desired to 
slay one another, they would have found the task very difficult, as 
in effect they did in the actual game of war. But the spectacle was a 
splendid one, and all the apparatus was ready in the armorers’ tent, 
marked by St. George and the Dragon. Tibbie ensconced himself 
in the innermost corner with a “ tractate,” borrowed from his friend 
Lucas, and sent the apprentices to ga/.etlieir fill at the rapidly filling 
circles of seats. They saw King Harry, resplendent in gilded armo. 
— ” from their own anvil, trire English steel,” s.dd Edmund, proud- 
ly— hand to her seat his sister the bride, one of the most beautiful 
women then in existerree, with a lovely and delicate bloom on her 
fair face ami exquisite Plantagenet features. No more royally hand- 
some creatures could the world have oftered than that brother and 
sister, and the English world appreciated them and made the lists 
ring with applause at the fair lady who had disdained foreign princes 
to wed her true love, an honest Englishman. 

He— the cloth of frieze — in blue ^Milanese armor, made to look as 
classical as possible, and with clasps and medals engraven from an- 


TUE AKMOUUEll’s PUENTICES. 79 

liqae gems — handed in Queen Katharine, wliose dark but glowing 
[?l)anish complexion made a striking contrast to the dazzling fairness 
of her young sister in-law. Near them sat a stout burly figure in 
episcopal purple, and at his feet there was a form which nearly took 
away all Stephen’s pleasure for the time. P'or it was in motley, and 
he could hear the bells jingle, while the hot blood rose in his cheeks 
in the dread lest Burgess should detect the connection, or recognize 
in the jester the grave personage who had come to negotiate with 
]\Ir. Headley for his indentures, or worse still, that the fool should 
see and claim him. 

However, Quipsome Hal seemed to be exchanging drolleries with 
the young dowager of , France, who, sooth to say, giggled in a very 
unqueenly manner at jokes which made the grave Spanish- born 
queen draw up her stately head, and converse with a lady on her 
other hand — an equally stately lady, somewhat older, with the 
straight Plantagenet features, and by her side a handsome boy, who, 
though only eight or nine years old, was tonsured, and had a little 
scholar’s go\vn. “ That,” said Edmund, ‘‘ is my Lady Countess of 
Salisbur}^ of whom Giles Headley prates so much.” 

A tournament which was merely a game between gorgeously 
equipped princes and nobles afforded little scope for adventure 
worthy of record, though it gave great diversion to the spectators. 
Stephen gazed like one fascinated at the gay panoply of horse and 
man, with the huge plumes on the heads of both, as they rushed 
against one another, and he shared wdth Edmund the triumph when 
the lance from their armory held good, the vexation if it were shiv- 
ered. All would have been perfect but for the sight of his uncle, 
evidently playing off his drollery in a manner that gave him a sense 
of personal degradation. 

To escape from the sight almost consoled him when, in the pause 
after the first courses had been run, Tibbie told him and Burgess to 
return, and send Headley and another workman with a fresh bundle 
of lances for the afternoon’s tilling. iStephen further hoped to find 
his brother at the Dragon Court, as it rvas one of those holidays that 
set every one free, and separation began to make the brothers value 
their meetings. 

But Ambrose was not at the Dragon Court, and when Stephen 
w'ent in quest of him to the Temple, Perronel had not seen him since 
the early morning, but she said he seemed so much bitten with the 
little old man’s scholarship that she had small doubt that he would 
be found poring over a book in Warwick Inner Yard. 

Thither therefore did Stephen repair. The place was nearly de- 
serted, for the inhabitants Avere mostly either artisans, or that far too 
numerous race who lived on the doles of convents, on the alms of 
church-goers, and the largesses scattered among the people on pub- 
lic occasions, and these were for the most part pursuing their voca- 
tion both of gazing and looking out for gain among the spectators 
outside the lists. The door that Stephen had been shown as that of 
Ambrose’s master was however partly’ open, and close beside it sat in 
the sun a figure that amazed him. On a small mat or rug, with a 
black and yellow handkerchief over her head, and little scarlet legs 
crossed under a blue dress, all lighted up by the gay May sun, there 


80 


THE armourer’s PRENTICES. 

slept the little dark, glowing maiden with her head bent as it leaned 
against the wall, her rosy lips half open, her long black plaits on her 
shoulders. 

Stepping \ip to the half -open door, whence he heard a voice read- 
ing, his astonishment was increased. At the table were his brother 
and his master, Ambrose with a black book in hand, Lucas Hansen 
with some papers, and on the ground was seated a veneralde, white- 
bearded old man, something between Stephen’s notions ot an apostle 
and of a magician, though the latter idea predominated at sight of a 
long parchment scroll covered with characters such as belonged to 
no alphabet that he had ever dreamed of. Whal were they doing 
to his brother? He was absolutely in an enchanter’s den. Was it a 
pix}-^ at the door, guarding it? “ Ambrose!” he cried aloud. 

Everybody started. Ambrose sprung to his feet, exclaiming, 
” Stephen!” The pixy gave a little scream and jumped up, flying 
to the old man, who quietly rolled up his scroll 

imeas rose up, as Ambrose spoke. 

“ Thy brother?” said he. 

” Yea— come in search of me,” said Ambrose. 

“ Thou hadst best go forth with him,” said Lucas. 

” It is not well that youth should study over long,” said the old 
man. ” Thou hast aided us well, but do thou now unbend the bow. 
Peace be with thee, ray son.” 

Ambrose complied, but scarcely willingly, and the instant they 
had made a few steps from the door, Stephen exclaimed in dismay, 
” Who — what was it? Have they bewitched thee, Ambrose?” 

Ambrose laughed merrily. “Hot so. It is holy lore that those 
good men are reading.” 

‘‘ Nay now, Ambrose. Stand still — if thoii canst, poor fellow,” 
he muttered, and then made the sign of the cross three times over his 
brother, who stood smiling, and said, ” Art satisfied, Stevie? Or 
wilt have me rehearse my (Jredo?” Which he did, Stephen listening 
critically, and drawing a long breath as he recognized each ■word, 
pronounced without a shudder at the critical points. “ Thou art 
safe so far,” said Stephen. ‘‘But sure he is a wizard. 1 even be- 
held his familiar spirit — in a fair shape doubtle.ss — like a pixy! Be 
not deceived, brother. Sorcery reads backward — and I saw him so 
read from that scroll ot his. Laughest thou! Nay! What shall 1 
do to free thee? Enter here!” 

Stephen dragged his brother, still laughing, into the poich of the 
nearest church, and deluged him with holy -water with such good 
will, that Ambiose, putting up his hands to shield his eyes, ex- 
claimed, ” Come now, have done with this folly, Stephen— though 
it makes me laugh to think of thy scared looks, and poor little Al- 
donza being taken for a familiar spirit.” And Ambrose laughed as 
he had not laughed for weeks. 

” But what is it, then?” , 

‘‘ The old man is of thy calling, or something like it, Stephen, be- 
ing that he maketh and tempereth sword-blades attei the prime Da- 
nuuscene or Toledo fashion, and the familiar spirit is his little daugh- 
ter.” 

Stephen did not, however, look mollified. “ Sword-blades! None 


THE akhouher’s prentices. 81 

hare n right to make them save our craft. This is one of the ras- 
caille Spaniards who have poured into the city under favor of the 
queen to spoil and rum the lawful trade. Though could you but 
have seen, Ambrose, how our tough English ashwood in King Har- 
ry’s hand— from our own armory too— made all go down before it. 
3 'ou would never uphold strangers and their false wares that can only 
get the better by sorcery. ’ ’ 

“ How thou dost harp upon sorcery!” exclaimed Ambrose. “ I 
musf tell thee the good old man’s story as ’twas told to me, and then 
wilt thou own that he is as good a Christian as ourselves — ay, or bet- 
ter — and hath little cause to love the Spaniards.” 

“Come on, then,” said Stephen. ” Methought if we went to- 
ward Westminster we might yet get where we could see the lists. 
Such a rare show, Ambrose, to see the king in English armor, ay, 
and Master Headley’s, every inch of it, glittering in the sun, so that 
one could scarce brook the dazzling, on his horse like a rock, shatter- 
ing all that came against him! 1 warrant you the lances cracked and 
shivered like fagots under old Purkis’s bill-hook. And that you 
should liefer pore over crabbed monkish stuff with yonder old men! 
My life on it, there must be some spell!” 

‘‘No more than of old, when 1 was ever for book; and thou for 
bow,” said Ambrose; “but I’ll make thee rueful for old Michael 
yet. Hast heard tell of the Moors in Spain?” 

“ Moors — blackamoors who worship Mahound and Tei-magant. 1 
saw a blackamoor last week behind his master, a merchant of Genoa 
in Paul’s Walk. He looked like the devils in the Miracle Plaj" at 
Christ Church, with blubber lips and wool for hair. 1 marveled that 
he did not writhe and flee when he came within the minster, but Ned 
Burgess said he was a christened man.” 

” Moors be not all black, neither be they all worshipers of Ma- 
hound,” replied Ambrose. 

However, as Ambrose’s information, though a few degrees more* 
correct and intelligent than his brother’s, was not complete, it will 
be better not to give the history of Lucas’s strange visitors in his 
words. 

They belonged to the race of Saracen Arabs who had brought the 
arts of life to such perfection in Southern Spain, but who had re- 
ceived the general appellation of Moors, from those Africans who 
were continually re-enforcing them, and, bringing a certain Puritan 
strictness of Mohammedanism with them, had done much toward de- 
stroying the highest cultivation among them before the Spanish king- 
doms became united, and Anally triumphed over them. During the 
long interval of two centuries, while Castile was occupied by internal 
wars, and Aragon by Italian conquests, there had been little aggression 
on the Moorish borderland, and a good deal of friendly intercourse both 
in the way of traffic and of courtesy ; nor had the bitter persecution and 
distrust of new converts then set in, which followed the entire con- 
quest of Granada. Thus, when Ronda was one of the first Moorish 
cities to surrender, a great merchant of the unrivaled sword-blades 
whose secret had been brought from Damascus, had, with all his 
famil 3 % been accepted gladly w^hen he declared himself ready to submit 
and receive baptism, Miguel Abenali was one of the sons, and 


82 


THE AHMOUKER’s PREXTICES. 


though his conversion had at first been mere compliance with his 
father's will and the family interests, he had become sufficiently 
convinced of Christian truth not to take part with his own people in 
the final struggle. Still, however, the inbred abhorrence of idolatry 
had influenced hi? manner of worship, and when, after half a life- 
time, Granada had fallen, and the Inquisition haa begun to take 
cognizance of new Christians from among the Moors as well as the 
Jews, there were not lackrng spies to report the absence of all sacred 
images or symbols from the house of tlie wealthy merchant; and 
that neither he nor any of his family had been seen kneeling before 
the shrine of Nuestra Senora. The sons of Abenali did indeed feel 
strongly the power of the national reaction, and revolted from the 
religion which they saw cruelly enforced on their conquered coun- 
trymen. The IMoor had been view^ed as a gallarrt enemy, the Morisco 
wars only a being to be distrusted and persecuted; and the efforts of 
the good Bishop of Granada, who had caused the Psalms, Gospels, 
and large portions of the Breviary to be translated into Arabic, were 
frustrated by the zeal ot those who imagined that heresy lurked in 
the vernacular, and perhaps that objections to popular practices 
might be strengl hened. 

By order of Cardinal Ximenes, these Arabic versions were taken 
away and burned; but Miguel Abenali had secured his own copy, 
and it was what he there learned that withheld him from flying to 
his countrymen and resuming their faith when he found that the 
Cliristianity he had professed for forty years was no longer a pro- 
tection to him. Having known the true Christ in the Gospel, he 
could not turn back to Mohammed, even though Christians perse- 
cuted in the Name they so little understood. 

The crisis came in 1507, when Ximenes, apparently impelled by 
the dread that simulated conformity should corrupt the Church, 
quickened the persecution of the doubtful “Nuevos Cristianos,” 
and the Abenali family, who had made themselves loved and re- 
spected, received warning that they had been denounced, and that 
fheir only hope lay in flighl. 

The two sons, high-spirited young men, on whom religion had far 
less hold than national feeling, fled to the Alpuxarra Mountains, 
and, renouncing the faith of the persecutors, joined their country- 
men in their gallant and desperate warfare. Their mother, who had 
long been dead, had never been more than an outward Christian, 
but the second wife of Abenali shared his belief and devotion with 
the intelligence and force ot character sometimes found among the 
^Moorish ladies of Spain. She and her little ones fled with him in 
disguise to Cadiz, with the precious Arabic Scriptures rolled round 
their waists, and took shelter with an English merchant, who had 
had dealings in sword-blades with Senor Miguel, and had been enter- 
tained by him in his beautiful Saracenic house at Ronda with East- 
ern hospitality. This he requited by giving them the opportunity 
of sailing for England in a vessel laden with Xeres sack; but the 
misery of the voyage across the Bay of Biscay in a ship fit for noth- 
ing but wine, was excessive; and creatures reared in the lovely cli- 
mate and refined luxur}' of the land of the palm and orange, 
exhausted too already by the toils of the mountain journey, were in- 


THE ARHOUHETl’s PBENTIOES. 83 

capable of enduring it, and Abenali’s brave wife nod one of her 
children were left beneath the waves of the Atlantic, VVith the one 
little girl left to him, he arrived in London, and the recommendation 
of his Cadiz friend obtained tor him work from a dealer in foreign 
■w’eapons, who was not unwilling to procure them nearer home. 
Happily for him, Moorish masters, however, rich, were always re- 
quired to be proficients in their own trade; and thus Miguel, or 
]\lichael as he was Known in England, w'as able to maintainliimself 
and his chikl by the fabrication of blades that no one could dis- 
tinguish from those of Damascus. Their perfection was a work of 
infinite skill, labor, and industry, but they were so costly, that their 
price, and an occasion.al job of inlaying gold in other metal, sufficed 
to maintain the old man and his little daughter. The armorers 
themselves were sometimes forced to have recourse to him, though 
unwillingly, for he was looked on with distrust and dislike as an 
interloper of foreign birth, belonging to no guild. A Biscaj'an or 
Castilian of the oldest Christian blood incurred exactly the same 
obloquy from the mass of London craftsmen and apprentices, and 
Lucas himself had small measure of favor, though Dutchmen were 
less alien to the English mind than Spaniards, and his trade did not 
lead to so much rivalr}"^ and competition. 

As much of this as Ambrose knew or understood he told to 
Stephen, who listened in a good deal of bewilderment, understand- 
ing very little, but with a strong instinct that his brother’s love of 
learning was leading him into dangerous company. And what were 
they doing on this fine May holiday, when every one ought to be 
out enjoying themselves? 

“ Well, if thou wilt know,” said Ambrose, pushed hard, “ there 
is one Master William Tindal, who hath been doing part of the 
blessed Evangel into English, and tor better certainty of its correct- 
ness, Master Michael w'as comparing it with his Arabic version, 
while 1 overlooked the Latin.” 

“ O Ambrose, thou wilt surely run into trouble. Know you not 
how Nurse Joan used to tell us of the burning of the Lollard books?” 

“ Nay, now, Stevie, this is no heresy. ’Tis such work as the 
great scholar, IVlaster Erasmus, is busied on — ay, and he is loved 
and honored by both the archbishops and ihe king’s grace! Ask 
Tibbie Steelman what he thinks thereof.” 

‘‘ Tibbie Steelman would think naught of a beggarly stranger 
calling hiiuselt a sword cutler, and practicing the craft without 
prenticeship or license,” said Stephen, swelling with indignation. 
” Come on Ambrose, and sweep the cobwebs from thy brain. If 
we cannot get into our own tent again, we can mingle with the out- 
skirts, and learn how the day is going, and how our lances and 
breastplates have stood where the kojives’ at the Eagle have gone 
like reeds and egg-shells — just as 1 threw George Bates, the prentice 
at the Eagle yesterday in a wrestling match at the butts with the 
trick old Diggory taught me.” 


84 


THE armourer's PREKTICES. 


\ 

CHAPTER XII. 

A KING IN A QUAGMIRE. 

For my pastance 
Hunt, sing, and dance. 

My heart is set 
All godly sport 
To my comfort. 

Who shall me let? 

The King's Baiade, attributed to Henry VIII. 

Life was a rough, hearty thing in the early sixteenth centur}’’, 
strangely divided between thought and folly, hardship and splendor, 
misery and merriment, toil and sport. 

The youths in the armorer’s household had experienced little of 
this as yet in their country life, but in London they could not but 
soon begin to taste both sides of the matter. Master Headley him- 
self was a good deal taken up with city affairs, and left the details 
of his business to Tibbie Steelman and Kit Smallbones, though he 
might always appear on the scene, and he had a wonderful knowl- 
edge of what was going on. 

The breaking-in and training of the two new country lads was 
entirely left to them and to Edmund Burgess. Giles soon found 
that complaints were of no avfdl, and only made matters harder for 
him, and that Tibbie Steelman and Kit Smallbones had no notion of 
favoring Iheir master’s cousin. 

Poor fellow, he was ver^' miserable in those first weeks. The 
actual toil, to which he was an absolute novice, though nominally 
three years an apprentice, made his hands raw. and his joints full of 
aches, while his groans met with nothing but laughter; and he 
recognized, with great displeasure, that more was laid on him than 
on Stephen Birkenholt. This was partly in consideration of 
Stephen’s j'^outh, partly of his ready zeal and cheerfulness. His 
hands might be sore too, but he was rather proud of it than other- 
wise, and his hero worship of Kit Smallbones made him run on 
errands, tug at the bellows staff, or fetch whatever was called for 
with a bright alacrity that won the foremen’s hearts, and it was 
noted that he who was really a gentleman, had none of the airs that 
Giles Headley showed. 

Giles began by some amount of bullying, by way of slaking his 
wrath at the preference shown for one whom he continued to style 
a beggarly brat picked up on the heath; but Stephen was good- 
humored, and accustomed to give and take, and they both found 
their level, as well in the Dragon Court as among the world outside, 
where the London prentices were a strong and redoubtable body, 
with rude, not to say cruel, rites of initiation among themselves, 
plenty of rivalries and enmities between house and house, guild and 
guild, but a united, not to say ferocious, esjirit de corps against 
every one else. Fisticuffs and wrestlings were the amenities that 
passed between them, though always with a love of fair play so long 
as no cowardice, or what wfis looked on as such was shown, for 


85 


THE ARHOFEER’s PRENTICES. 

there was no mercy for the weak or weakly. Such had better be- 
take themselves at once to the cloister, or ifte was made intolerable 
by constant jeers, blows, baitings, and huntings, often, it must be 
owned, absolutely brutal. 

Stephen and Giles had however passed through this ordeal. The 
letter to John Birkenholt had been dispatched by a trusty clerk rid- 
ing w ith the Judges of Assize, wlio Mistress Perronel knew' might 
be safely trusted, and w'ho actually brougnt back a letter which 
might have emanated from the most affectionate of brothers, giving 
his authority for the binding Stephen apprentice to the worshipful 
Master Giles Headley, and sending the remainder of the boy’s por- 
tion. 

Stephen was thereupon regularly bound apprentice to Master 
Headley. It w'as a solemn affair, which took place in the Armorers’ 
Hall in ColemarT Street, before sundry witnesses. Harry Randall, 
in his soberest garb and demeanor, acted as guardian to his nephew, 
and presented him, clad in the regulation prentice garb—" flat round 
cap, close-cut hair, narrow falling bands, coarse side coat, close 
hose, cloth stockings,’’ cost with the badge of the Armorers’ Com- 
pany, and Master Headley’s own dragon’s tail on the sleeve, to 
which was added a blue cloak marked in like manner. The in- 
structions to apprentices were rehearsed, beginning, " Ye shall 
constantly and devoutly on your knees every day serve God, morn- 
ing and evening ’’ — pledging him to " avoid evil company, to make ’ 
speedy return when sent on his master’s business, to be fair, 
gentle and low'ly in speech and carriage with all men,’’ and the like. 

Mutual promises were interchanged between him and his master, 
Stephen on his knees; the indentures were signed, tor Quipsome 
Hal could with much ado produce an autograph signature, though 
his penmanship went no fuither, and the occasion was celebrated by 
a great dinner of the whole craft at the Armorers’ Hall, to w'hich 
the principal craftsmen who had been apprentices, such as Tibbie 
Steelman and Kit Smallbones, w'ere invited, sitting at a lower table, 
while the masters had the higher one on the dais, and a third was 
reserved for the apprentices after they should have waited on their 
masters — in fact it was an imitation of the orders of chivalry, 
knights, squires and pages, and the gradation of rank was as strictly 
observed as by the nobility. Giles, considering the feast to be en- 
tirely in his honor, though the transfer of his indentures had been 
made at Salisbury, endeavored to come out in some of his bravery, 
but was admonished that such presumption might be punished, the 
first time, at his master’s discretion, the second time, by a whipping 
at the hall of his Company, and the third time by six months being 
added to the terms of his apprenticeship. 

Master Randall was entertained in the place of honor, where he 
comported himself with great gravity, though he could not resist 
alarming Stephen with an occasional wink or gesture as the boy ap- 
proached in the course of the duties of waiting at the upper board — 
a splendid sight with cups and flagons of gold and silver, with ven- 
ison and capons and all that a City banquet could command before 
the invention of the turtle. 

There was drinking of toasts, and among the foremost was that 
of Wolsey, who had freshly received his nomination of cardinal, 


8C THE armourer’s PRENTICES. 

and whose hat was on its way from Eome — and here the jester could 
not help hetrayiiifj his knowledge ot the domestic policy ot the 
household, and telling the company how it had become known that 
the scarlet hat was actually on the way, but in a “ varlet’s budget, 
— a mere Italian common knave, no t>etter than myself,” quoth 
Quipsome Hall, whereat his nephew trembled standing behind his 
chair, forgetting that the decorous solid man in the sad -colored gown 
and well-crimped ruff , neatest ot Perronel’s performances, was no 
such base comparison tor any varlet. Hal went on to describe, how- 
ever, how my Lord of York had instantly sent to stay the messenger 
on his landing at Dover, and equip him with all manner ot costly 
silks by way of apparel, and with attendants, such as might do jtis- 
tice to his freight, ” that so,” he said, ‘‘ men may not rate it but as 
a scarlet cock’s comb, since all men be but fools, and the sole ques- 
tion is, who among them hath wdt enough to live by his tolly.” 
Therewith he gave a wink that so disconcerted Stephen as nearly to 
cause an upset of the bowl of perfumed water that he was bringing 
for the washing of hands. 

Master Headley however suspected nothing, and invited the 
grave Master Randall to attend the domestic festival on the presenta- 
tion of poor Spring’s effigy at the shrine of St. Julian. This w'as to 
take place early in the morning of the 14th of September, Holy Cross 
Day, the last holiday in the year that had any of the glory of sum- 
mer about it, and on which the apprentices claimed a prescriptive 
right to go out nutting in St. John’s Wood, and to carry home their 
spoil to the lasses of their acquaintance. 

Tibbie Steelman had completed the figure in bronze, with a silver 
collar and chain, not quite without protest that the sum had better 
have been bestowed in alms. But from his master’s point of view 
this wmuld have been giving to a pack of lying beggars and thieves 
what was due to the holy saint; no one save t ibble, who could do 
and say what he chose, could have ventured on a word of remon- 
strance on such a subject; and as the full tide of icouoclasm, conse- 
quent on the discovery of the original wording ot the Second Com- 
mandment, had not yet set in, Tibbie had no more conscientious 
scruple against making the figure, than in molding a little straight- 
tailed lion tor Lord Harr}' Percy’s helmet. 

So the party in early morning heard their mass, and then, repair- 
ing to St. Julian’s pillar, while the rising sun came peeping through 
the low ea.stern window ot the vaulted Church of St. Faith, JMaster 
Headley on his knees gave thanks for his preservation, and then put 
forward Jiis little daughter, holding on her joined hands the figure 
ot poor Spring, coucfiant and beautifully modeled m bronze, with 
all 'Tibbie’s best skill. 

Hal Randall and Ambrose had both come up from the little 
home where Perrouel presided, for the hour w;is too early for the 
jester’s jibseuce to be remarked in the luxurious household of Ihe 
cardinal elect, and he even came to break his fast afterward at the 
Dragon Court, and held such interesting discourse with old Dame 
Headley on the farthingales and coifs of Queen Katharine and her 
ladies, that she pronounced hinr a man wondrous wise and under- 
standing, and declared Stephen happy in the possession of such a 
kinsman. 


THE akhol'uek’s phextices. 87 

“ And whither away now, youngsters?” he said, as he rose from 
table. 

• ‘ To St. John’s Wood! The good greenwood, uncle,” said Am- 
brose. 

‘‘ Thou, loo, Ambrose?” said Stephen joyfully. ” For once away 
from thine ink and thy books!” 

” Ay,” said Ambrose, ” mine heart warms to the woodlands once 
more. Uncle, would that thou couldst come.” 

‘‘ Would that I could, boy! We three would show these lads of 
Cockayne what three foresters know of woodcraft! But it may not 
be. Were 1 once there, the old blood might stir again and 1 might 
bring you into trouble, and ye have not two faces under one hood as 
1 have! So fare ye well, 1 wish you many a bagful of nuts!” 

The four months of city life, albeit the City wjis little bigger than 
our moderate sized country towns, and far from beina: an unbroken 
mass of houses, had yet made the two young foresters delighted 
to enjoy a day of thorough country in one another’s society. Little 
Denuet longed to go with them, but the prentice world was far too 
rude for little maidens to be trusted in it, and her father held out 
high hopes of going one of these days to High Park as he called it, 
while Edmund and Stephen promised her all their nuts, and as many 
blackberries as could be held m their flat caps. 

‘ ‘ Giles has promised me none, ’ ’ said Dennet, with a pouting lip, 
” nor Ambrose.” 

“ Why sure, little mistress, thou’lt hae enough to crack thy teeth 
on!” said Edmund Burgess. 

” They ought to bring theirs to me,” returned the little heiress of 
the Dragon Court with an air of offended dignity that might have 
suited the heiress of the kingdom. 

Giles, who looked on Dennet as a kind of needful appendage to 
the Dragon, a piece of property of his own, about whom he need 
take no trouble, merely laughed and said, ” Want must be thy mas- 
ter then.” But Ambrose treated her petulance in another fashion. 
‘‘ Look here, pretty mistress,” said he. ‘‘ there dwells b^’- me a poor 
little maid nigh about thine age, who never goeth further out than 
to St. Paul’s minster, nor plucKeth flower, nor hath sweet cake, nor 
manchet bread, nor sugar-stick, nay, and scarce ever saw English 
hazel-nut nor blackberry. ’Tis for her that I want to gather them.” 

‘‘Is she thy master’s daughter?” demanded Denuet, who could 
admit the claims of another princess. 

‘‘ Nay, my master hath no children, but she dw'elleth near him.” 

‘‘ 1 Avill send hei some, and likewise of mine own comfits and 
cakes,” said Mistress Dennet. ‘‘Only thou must bring all to me 
first.” 

Ambrose laughed and said, ” It’s a bargain then, little mistress?” 

‘‘ I keep my word,” returned Dennet marching away, while Am- 
brose obeyed a summons from good-natured Mistress Headley to 
have his wallet filled with bread and cheese like those of her own 
prentices. 

Off went the lads under the guidance of Edmund Burgess, meet- 
ing parties of their own kind at every turn, soon leaving behind 
them the city bounds, as they passed under the New Gate, and by 
and by skirting the fields of the great Carthusian monastery, or 


88 


THE armourer’s RRENTICES. 

Charter House, with the burial-ground given by Sir Walter Manny 
at the time of the Black Death. Beyond came marshy ground 
through which they had to pick their way carefully, over steppinf- 
stones — this being no other than what is now the Regent’s Park, not 
yet in any degree drained by the New River, but all quaking 
ground, overgrown with rough grass and marsh-plants, through 
which Stephen and Ambrose bounded by the help of stout poles with 
feel and eyes well used to bogs, and knowing where to look for a 
sate tooting, while many a flat capped London lad floundeied about 
and sunk over his yellow ankles or left his shoes behind him, while 
lapwings shrieked pee-weet, and almost flapped him vrith their 
broad wings, and moorhens dived in the dark pools, and wild ducks 
rose in long families. 

Stephen was able to turn the laugh against his chief adversary and 
rival, George Bates of the Eagle, who proposed seeking for tlie lap- 
wings’ nest in hopes of a dainty dish of plover’s eggs; being too 
great a cockney to remember, that in September the contents of the 
eggs were probably flying over the heather, as well able to shift for 
themselves as their parents. 

Above all things tire London prentices were pugnacious, but as 
every one joined in tne laugh against George, and he was besides 
stuck fast on a quaking tussock of grass, atraid to proceed or advance, 
he could not have his revenge. And when the slousrh w’as passed, 
and the slight rise leading to the copse of St. John’s Wood was at- 
tained, behold, it was found to be in possession of the lower sort, 
the lads, the black guard as they were called. They were of course 
quite as ready to tight with the prentices as the prentices were with 
them, and a battle royal took place, all along the front of the hazel 
bushes— in which Stephen of the Dragon and George of the Eagle 
fought side by side. Sticks and fists were the weapons, and there 
were no yeiy severe casualties before the prentices, being the larger 
number as well as the stouter and better fed, had routed their adver- 
saries, and driven them oft toward Harrow. 

There was crackling of boughs and filling of bags, and cracking 
of nuts, and wild cries in pursuit of startled hare or rabbit, and 
though Ambrose and Stephen indignantly repelled the idea of St. 
John’s Wood being named in the same day with their native forest, 
it is doubtful whether they had ever enjoyed themselves more; until 
just as they were about to turn homeward, whether moved by his 
hostility to Stephen, or by envy at the capful of juicy blackberries, 
carefully covered with green leaves, George Bates, rushing up from 
behind, shouted out “ Here’s a skulker. Here’s one of the black 
guard. Oft to thy fellows, varlet!” at the same time dealing a dex- 
terous blow under the cap, which sent the blackberries up into Am- 
brose’s face. “ Ha! ha!” shouted the ill-conditioned fellow. “ So 
much for a knave that serves rascally strangers! Ilere! hand over 
that bag of nuts!” 

Ambrose was no fighter, but in defense of the bag that was to pur- 
chase a treat for little Aldonza, he clinched his fists, and bade George 
Bates come and take them if he would. The quiet scholarly boy 
was, however, no match for the young armorer, and made but a 
poor reply to the buffets of his adversary, who had hold of the bag, 
and was nearly choking him with the faring round his neck. 


THE ARMOUEER S PREKTIOES. 


89 


However, Stephen had already missed his brother, and turning 
round, shouted out that the villain Bales was mauling him, and 
rushed back, falling on Ambrose’s assailant with a sudden well- 
directed pommeling that made him hastily turn about, with cries of 
“ Two against one!” 

“ Not at all,” said Stephen. ” Stand by, Ambrose, I’ll give Ihe 
coward his deserts.” 

In tact though the boys were nearly of a size, George somewhat 
the biggest, Stephen’s country activity, and perhaps the higher 
spirit ot his gentle blood, generally gave him the advantage, and on 
this occasion he soon reduced Bates to a roar of mercy. 

‘‘ Thou must purchase it!” said Stephen. ‘‘ Thy bag of nuts, in 
return for the berries thou hast W'asted!” 

Peaceable Ambrose would have remonstrated, but Stephen was im- 
placable. He cut the string, and captured the bag, then with a 
parting kick bade Bates go after his comrades, for his Eagle was 
naught but a thieving kite. 

Baies made ofl pretty quickly, hut the two brothers tarried a little 
to see how much damage the blackberries had suffered, and to re- 
pair the losses as they descended into the bog by gathering some 
choice dewberries. 

” 1 marvel these fine fellows ’scaped our company,” said Stephen 
presently. 

“ Are we in the right track, thinkst thoul Here is & pool 1 
marked not before, ’ ’ said Ambrose anxiously. 

‘‘ Nay, we can’t be tar astray while we see St. Paul’s spire and the 
Tower full before us,” said Stephen. ‘‘ Plainer marks than we had 
at home.” 

‘‘ That may be. Only where is the safe footing?” said Ambrose. 
” 1 wish we had not lost sight of the others!” 

‘‘ Pish! what good are a pack of city lubbers!” returned Stephen. 
” Don’t we know a quagmire when we see one, better than they 
do?” 

” Hark, they are shouting for us.” 

‘ Not they! That’s a falconer’s call. There’s another whistle! 
See, there’s the haw'k. She’s going down the W'ind, as I’m alive,” 
and Stephen began to bound wildl}' along, making all the sounds 
and calls by which falcons were recalled, and holding up as a lure 
a lapwMng which he had knocked down. Ambrose, by no means so 
confident in bog-trotting as his brother, stood still to wait him hear- 
ing the calls and shouts of the falconer coming nearer, and presently 
seeing a figure flying by the help ot a pole over the pools and dykes 
that here made some attempt at draining the waste. Suddenly, in 
mid career over one of these broad ditches, there was a collapse, 
and a lusty shout for help as the form disappeared. Ambrose in- 
stantly perceived what had happened, the leaping pole had broken 
to the downfall of its owner. Furgetting all his doubts as to bog 
holes and morasses, he grasped his own pole, and sprung from tus- 
sock to tussock, till he had reached the bank of the ditch or water 
course in which the unfortunate sportsman was floundering. He 
was a large, powerful man, but this was of no avail, for the slough 
afforded no foothold. The further side was asleep bank built up of 
sods, the nearer sloped down gradually, and though it was not ap- 


THE ARMOEKETl S PEENTICES. 


90 

piircntly very deep, the eftorts of the victim to struggle out had done 
nothing but churn up a mass of black mudd}*^ water in which he 
sunk deeper every moment, and it was alreadj' nearly to his shoul- 
ders when with a cry qf joy, lialf choked however by the mud, he 
cried. “Ha! my good lad! Are there an}’^ more of ye?” 

“ Not nigh, 1 fear,” said Ambrose, beholding with some dismay 
the breadth of the shoulders which were all that appeared above the 
turbid water.” 

“ 8oh! Lie down, boy, behind that bunch of osier. Hold out thy 
pole. Let me see thine hands. Thou art but a straw, but, our Lady 
l)e my speed! Now hancs England on a pair of wrists !” 

There was a great struggle, an absolute effort for life, and but for 
the osier stump Ambrose would certainly have been dragged into the 
water, when the man had worked along the pole, and grasping his 
hands, pulled himself upward. Happily the sides of the dyke be- 
came harder higher rrp, and did not instantly yield to the pressure of 
his knees, and by the time Ambrose’s hands and shoulders felt nearly 
wrenched from their sockets, the stem of the osier had been attained, 
and in another minute, the rescued man, bareheaded, plastered with 
mud, and streaming with water, sat by him on the bank, panting, 
gasping and trying to gather breath and clear his throat from the 
mud he had swallowed. 

“ Thanks, good lad, well done,” he articulated. “ Those fellows! 
where are they?” And feeling in his bosom, he brought out a gold 
whistle suspended by a chain. “ Blow it,” he said, taking off the 
chain, “ mj" mouth is too full of slime.” 

Ambrose blew a loud shrill call, but it seemed to reach no one but 
Stephen, whom he presently saw dashing tow'ard them. 

“Here is my brother coming, sir,” he said, as he gave his en- 
deavors to help the stranger to free himself from the mud that clung 
to him, and which was in some places thick enough to be scraped 
off with a knife. He kept up a continual interchange of exclama- 
tions at his plight, whistles and shouts for his people, and impreca- 
tions on their tardiness, until Stephen was near enough to show that 
the hawk had been recovered, and then he joyfully called out, “ Ha! 
hast thou got her? Why, fiat caps as ye are, ye put all my fellows 
to shame! How no, thou errant bird, dost know thy master, or take 
him for a mud wall? Kite that thou art, to have led me such a 
dance! And what’s your name, my brave lads? Ye must h.ave been 
bred to woodcraft. ” 

Ambrose explained both their parentage, and their present occupa- 
tion, but was apparently heeded but little. “ Wot ye howto get out 
of this quagmire?” was the question. 

“1 never was here before, sir,” said Stephen, “but yonder lies 
the Tower, and if we keep along by this dyke, it must lead us out 
somew’here.” 

“Well said, boy, 1 must be moving, or the mud will dry on me, 
and 1 shall stand here as though 1 were turned to stone by the Gor- 
gon’s head! So have with thee! Go on first. Master Hawk- tamer. 
What will bear thee will bear me!” 

There was an imperative tone about him that surprised the broth- 
ers, and Ambrose, looking at him from head to foot, felt sure that it 
was some great man at the least, wbom it had been his hap to 


91 


THE AliMOUliEIi's PEEXTICES. 

rescue. Indeed, lie began to have further suspicions ■when they 
came to a pool of clearer water, beyond which was fii’iner ground, 
and the stranger, with an exclamation of joy, borrowed Stephen’s 
cap, and, scooping up the water with it, w'ashed his face and head, 
disclosing the golden hair and beard, fair complexion, and hand- 
some, square face he had seen more than once before. 

He whispered to Stephen, “ ’Tis the king!” 

‘‘ Ila! ha!” laughed Henry, ‘‘ hast found him out, lads? Well, 
it may not be the worse for ye. Pity thou shouldst not be in the 
forest still, my 3’oung falconer, but we know oiu good city of Lon- 
don too Avell to break Ihj’^ indentures. And thou — ” 

He was turning to Ambrose when further shouts were heard. 
The king halloed, and bade the boys do so, and in a few moments 
more they w^ere surrounded by (he rest of the hawking paity, full 
of dismay at the king’s condition, and deprecating his anger for hav- 
ing lost him. 

‘‘ Yea,” said Heniy; “an it had not been for this good lad, ye 
w^ould never have heard more of the Majesty of England! Swallowed 
in a quagmire had made a new end for a king, and e would liave to 
brook the little Scot.” 

The gentlemen who had come up, were profuse in lamentations. 
A horse was brought up for the king’s use, and he prepared to 
mount, being in haste to get into dry clothes. He turned round, 
however, to the boj^s, and said, “ I’ll not forget you, my lads. Keep 
that!” he added, as Ambrose, on his knee, would have given him 
back the whistle, ‘‘ ’tis a token that maj'be will serve thee, for I 
shall know it again. And thou, my black-eyed lad — M}' purse, 
Howard!” 

He handed the purse to Stephen — a velvet bag richly wrought with 
gold, and containing ten gold angels, besides smaller money — bid- 
ding them divide, like good brothers as he saw they were, and then 
galloped off with his train. 

Twilight w'as coming on, but following in the direction of the 
riders, the boj'S were soon on the Islington road. The New Gate 
was shut hy the time the3'^ reached it, and their explanation that they 
were belated aftei a nutting expedition would not have served them, 
had not Stephen produced the sum of twopence which softened 
the surliness of the guard. 

It was already dark, and though curfew had not yet sounded, prep- 
arations were making for lighting the watch-fires in the open 
spaces and throwing chains across the streets, but the little door in 
the Dragon Court was open, and Ambrose went in with his bi other 
to deliver up his nuts to Dennet and claim her promise of sending a 
share to Aldonza. 

They found their uncle in his sober array sitting by Master Ilead- 
le3% who was rating Edmund and Giles tor having lost sight of 
them, the latter excusing himself 1*3" grumbling out that he could 
not be marking all Stephen’s brawls with George Bates. 

"When the two w^anderers ajipeared, relief took the form of anger, 
and there were sharp demands why lhe3’ had loitered. Their story 
was listened to with many exclamations: Dennet jumped for jo3% 
her grandmother advised that the angels should be consigned to her 
pwn safe keeping, and when Master Ileadlcj^ heard of Henry’s 


92 


THE armourer’s PRENTICES. 

scruples about the indentures he declared that it was a rare wise king 
who knew that an honest cratt was better than court favor. 

“ Yet mayhap he might do something for thee, friend Ambrose,” 
added the armorer. ” Commend thee to some post in his chapel 
royal, or put thee into some college, since such is thy turn. Ho tv 
say’st thou. Master Kandall, shall he send in this same token, and 
make his petition?” 

” If a foo — if a plain man may be heard where the wise hath 
spoken,” said Randall, ‘‘ he had best abstain. Kings love not to be 
minded of mishaps, and our Hal’s humor is not to be reckoned on! 
Lay up the toy in case of need, but an thou claim over much he may 
mind thee m a fashion not to thy taste.” 

“ Sure our king is of a more generous mold!” exclaimed Mrs. 
Headley. 

‘‘He is like other men, good mistress, just as you know how to 
have him, and he is scarce like to be willing to lie minded of the 
taste of mire, or of floundering like a hog in a salt marsh. Ha! ha!” 
and Quipsome Hal went off into such a laugh as might have be- 
trayed his identity to any one more accustomed to the grimaces of 
his professional character, but which did only infect the others with 
the same contagious merriment. ” Come thou home now,” he said 
to Ambrose; ‘‘ my good woman hath been in a mortal fright about 
thee, and would have me come out to seek after thee. Such are the 
women folk, Master Headley. Let them have but a lad to look after, 
and they’ll bleat after him like an old ewe that has lost her lamb.” 

Ambrose only stayed for Dennet to divide the spoil, and though 
the blackberries had all been lost or crushed, the little maiden kept 
her promise generously, and filled the bag not only with nuts but 
with three red cheeked apples, and a handful of comfits for the 
poor little maid who never tasted fruit or sweets. 


CHAPTER Xlll. 

A LONDON HOLIDAY. 

“ Up then spoke the apprentices tall 
Living in Loudon, one and all.” 

Old Ballad. 

Another of the many holidays of the Londoners was enjoyed on 
the occasion of the installation of Thomas Wolsey as Cardinal of St. 
Cecilia and Papal Legate. 

A whole assembly of prelates and ‘‘lusty gallant gentlemen” 
rode out to Blackheath to meet the Roman envoy, who, robed in full 
splendor, with St. Peter’s keys embroidered on back and breast, and 
on the housm»s of his mule, appeared at the head of a gallant train 
in the Papal liveries, two of whom carried the gilded pillars, the 
insignia of office, and two more a scarlet and gold- covered box or 
casket containing the cardinal’s hat. Probably no such reception 
of the dignity was ever prepared elsew’here, and all was calculated 
to give magnificent ideas of the office of cardinal and of the power 
of the Pope to those who had not been let into the secret that the 
messenger had been met at Dover; and thus magnificently fitted out 


THE ARMOUREIl’s PKEXTICES. 93 

to satisfy the requirements of the butcher’s son of Ipswich, and of 
one of the most ostentatious of courts. 

Old Gaffer Martin Fulford had muttered in his bed that such pomp 
had not been the way in the time of the true old royal blood, and that 
display had come in with the upstart slips of the Red Rose — as he 
still chose to style the Tudors; and he maundered away about the 
beauty and affability of Edward IV. till nobody could understand 
him, and Perronel only threw in her “ay, grandad,” or “yea, 
gaffer,” when she thought it was expected of her. 

Ambrose had an unfailing appetite tor the sermons of Dean Colet, 
who was to preach on this occasion in Westminster Abbey, and his 
uncle had given him counsel how to obtain standing ground there, 
entering before the procession. He was alone, his friends Tibbie and 
Lucas both had that part of the Lollard temper which loathed the 
jrride and wealth of the great politician clergy, and in spite of their 
admiration for the dean they could not quite forgive his taking 
part in the pomp of such a raree show. 

But Ambrose’s devotion to the dean, to say nothing of youthful 
curiosity, outweighed all those scruples, and as he listened, he was 
carried along by the curious sermon in which the preacher likened 
the orders of the hiei'archy below to that of the nine orders of the 
Angels, making the rank of cardinal correspond to that of the 
seraphim, aglow with love. Of that holy flame, the scarlet robes 
Avere the type to the spiritualized mind of Colet, w'hile others saw in 
them only the relic of the imperial purple of old Rome; and some 
beheld them as the token that, Wolsey was one step nearer the 
supreme height that he coveted so earnestly. But the great and suc- 
cessful man found himself personally addressed, bidden not to be 
puffed up with his own greatness, and stringently reminded of tlie 
highest example of humility; shown that he that exalteth himself 
shall be abased, and he that humbleth himself be exalted. The 
preacher concluded with a strong personal exhortation to do righte- 
ousness and justice alike to rich and poor, joined with truth and 
mercy, setting God always before him. 

The sermon ended, Wolsey knelt at the altar, and Archbishop 
Wareham, who, like his immediate predecessors, held legatine au- 
thority, performed the act of investiture, placing the scarlet hat witn 
its many loops and tassels on his brother primate’s head, after 
which a' magniflcent Te Deum rang through the beautiful church, 
and the procession ot prelates, peers, and ecclesiastics of all ranks 
in their richest array formed to escort the new cardinal to banquet 
at his palace with the king and queen. 

Ambrose, stationed by a column, let the throng rush, tumble, and 
jostle one another to behold the show, till the abbey was nearly 
empty, Avhile he tried to work out the perplexing question whether 
all this pomp and splendor were truly for the glory of God, or whether 
it w^ere a delusion for the temptation of men’s souls. U W'as a de- 
bate on which his old and his new guides seemed to him at issue, 
and he was drawn in both directions— now by the beauty, order and 
deep symbolism of the Catholic ritual, now" by the spirituality and 
earnestness of the men among wfliom he lived. At one moment the 
worldly pomp, the mechanical and irreverent worship, and the 


94 


THE AKMOUREK’s TRENTICES. 


gross and vicious habits of many of the clergy repelled him; at an- 
other the reverence and conservatism of his nature held him fast. 

Presently he felt a hand on his shoulder, and started. “ Lost in a 
stud, irs we say at home, boy,” said the jester, resplendent in a brand- 
new motley suit. ‘‘ Wilt come in to the banquet? ’I'is open 
house, and 1 can find thee a seat without disclosing the kinship that 
sits so sore on thy brother Where is he?” 

” 1 have not seen him this day.” 

“ That did 1,” returned Randall, ” as 1 rode by on mine ass. He 
was ruffling it so lustily that J could not but give him a wink, the 
which my gentleman could by no. means stomach! Poor lad! Yet 
there he times, Ambrose, when I feel in sooth that mine office is 
the only honorable one, since who besides can speak truth? 1 love 
m}'^ tord; he is a kind, open-handed master, and there’s none 1 would 
so willingly serve, whether by jest or earnest, but what is he hut 
that which 1 oft call him in joke, the greater fool than 1, selling 
peace and ease, truth and hope, this life and the next for yonder 
scarlet hat, which is after all of no more worth than this jingling 
head-gear of mine.” 

‘‘ Deafening the spiritual ears tar more, it maybe,” said Ambrose, 
“ since Jnimiles exaltaverint.” 

It vvas no small shock that there, in the midst of the nave, the 
answer rvas a bound, like a ball, almost as high as the capital of the 
column by which they stood. ‘‘ There’s exaltation!” said Randall 
in a low voice, and Ambrose perceived that some strangers were in 
sight. ‘‘ Come, seek thy brother out, hoy, and bring him to the 
banquet, i’ll speak a word to Peter Porter, and he’ll let you in. 
There’ll be plenty of fooling all the afternoon, before my namesake 
King Hal, who can afford to be an honester man in his fooling than 
any about him, and whose laugh at a hearty jest is goodly to hear.” 

Ambrose thanked him and undertook the quest. They parted at 
the great west door of the abbey, where, by way of vindicating his 
own character for buffoonery, Randall exclaimed, ‘‘ "W here be mine 
ass?” and not seeing the animal, immediately declared, ‘‘ There he 
is!” and at the same lime sprung upon the back and shoulders of a 
gaping and astonished clown, who was gazing at the rear of the 
procession. 

The crowd applauded with shouts of coarse laughter, but a man, 
who seemed to belong to the victim, broke in with an angry oath, 
and ” How now, sir?” 

‘‘ I cry you mercy,” quoth the jester; ” ’twas mine own ass I 
sought, and if 1 have fallen on thine, 1 will but ride him to York 
House and then restore him. So ho! good jackass,” crossing his 
ankles on the poor fellow’s chest so that he could not be shaken 
off. 

The comrade lifted a cudgel, but there was a general cry of ” My 
lord cardinal’s jester, lay not a finger on him!” 

But Harry Randall was not one to brook immunity on the score 
of his master’s greatness. In another second he was on his feet, 
had wrested the staff from the hands of his astounded beast of 
burden, fiourished it round his head after the most approved manner 
of Shirley champions at Lyndhurst fair, and called to his adver- 
aary to ” come on,” 


THE All-MOUIIEU'S PRENTICES. 95 

It (lid not take many rounds before rial’s dexterity had floored his 
adversary, and the shouts of “Well struck, merry fool!’’ “Well 
played, ^uipsome Hal!’’ were rising high when the Abbot of West- 
minster’s yeomen were seen making way through the throng, which 
fell back in terror on either side as they came to seize on the brawlers 
in their sacred precincts. 

But here again my lord cardinal’s fool was a privileged person, 
and no one laid a hand on him, though his blood being up, he would, 
spite of his gay attire, have enjoyed a fight on etjual t{;rms. His 
quadruped donkey was brought up to him amid general applause, 
but when he looked round for Ambrose, the boy had disappeared. 

The better and finer the nature that displayed itself in Randall, tlie 
more painful was the sight of his buffooneries to his nephew, and 
at the first leap, Ambrose had hurried away in confusion. He sought 
his brother here, there, everj'where, and at last came to the conclu- 
sion tliat Stephen must have gone home to dinner. He walked 
quickly across the fields separating VVestminster from the City of 
London, hoping to reach Chenpside before the lads of the Dragon 
should have gone out again ; but just as he was near St. Paul’s, com- 
ing round Amen Corner, he heard the sounds of a fray. “ Have at 
the country lubbers! Away with the moonrakers! Fiat caps, conre 
on!’’ “Hey! lads of the Eagle! Down with the Dragons! Ad- 
ders! Snakes — s-s-s-s-s!’’ 

There w’as a kicking, stnrggling mass of blue backs and yellow 
legs before him, from out of wtiich came, “ Yah! Down Avilh the 
Eagles! Cowards! Kites! Cockneys!’’ There w’ere pleutj' of boys, 
men, w'omen with children in their arms hallooing on, “ VVell done. 
Eagle!’’ “ Go it, Dragon!’’ 

The word Dragon filled the quiet Ambrose with hot impulse to 
defend his brother. All his gentle, scholarlj’^ habits gave way before 
that cry, and a shout that he took to be Stephen’s voice in the midst 
of the melee. 

He was fairly carried out of himself, and doubling his fists he fell 
on the back of the nearest boys, intending to break through to his 
brother, and he found an unexpected ally. Will Wherry’s voice 
called out, “ Have with you, comrade!’’ — and a pair of hands and 
arnrs considerably stouter and more used to fighting than his own, 
began to pommel right and left with such good will that they soon 
broke through to the aid of their friends; and not before it was 
time, for Stephen, Giles, and Edmund, with their backs against the 
w'all, were defending themselves with all their might against tre- 
mendous odds; and just as the new allies broke through, a shar-p 
stone struck Giles in the eye, and leveled him with the ground, his 
head striking against the wall. Whether it were from alarm at his 
fall, or at the unexpected attack in the rear, or probably from both 
causes, the assailants dispersed in all directions without waiting to 
perceive how slender the succoring force really was. 

Ecknund and Stephen were raising up the unlucky Giles, who lay 
quite insensible, with blood pouring from his eye. Ambrose tried 
to wipe it away, and there were anxious doubts whether the e^'e 
itself w'ere safe. They were some way from home, and Giles was the 
biggest and heaviest of them all. 


96 


THE ARHOUREE’s PRENTICES. 

“■Would that Kit Smallbones were here!” said Stephen, prepar- 
ing to take the teet while Edmund took the shoulders. 

“ Look here,” said Will 'Wherry, pulling Ambrose’s sleeve, “ our 
yard is much nearer, and the old Moor, Master Michael, is sate to 
know what to do for him. That sort ot cattle always are leeches. 
He wiled the pain from my thumb when ’twas crushed in our print- 
ing press. ;>Iayhap if he put some salve to him, he might get home 
on his own feet.” 

Edmund listened. “There’s reason in lhat,” he said. “Dost 
know this leech, Ambrose?” 

“ 1 know him well. He is a good old man, and wondrous wise. 
Nay, no black arts; but he saith his folk had great skill in herbs and 
the like, and though he be no physician by trade, he hath much of 
their lore. ’ ’ 

“ Have wdth thee, then,” returned Edmund, “ the rather that 
Giles is no small weight, and the guard might come on us ere we 
reached the Dragon.” 

“ Or those cowardly rogues of the Eagle might set on us again,” 
added Stephen; and as they went on their way to Warwick Inner 
Yaid he explained that the cause of the encounter had been that 
Giles had thought fit to prank himself in his father’s silver chain, 
and thus George Bates, alwaj^s owing the Dragon a grudge, and 
rendered specially malicious since the encounter on Holy Rood Day, 
had raised the cry against him, and caused all the flat caps around 
to make a rush at the gaud as lawful prey. 

“ ’Tis clean against ijrentice statutes to wear one, is it not?” asked 
Ambrose. 

“ Ay,” returned Stephen; “ but none of us but would stand up 
for our own comrade against those meddling fellows of the Eagle.” 

“ But,” added Edmvind, “ we must beware the guard, for if they 
looked into the cause of the fray our master might be called on to 
give Giles a whipping in the company’s hall, this being a second 
offense of going abroad in these vanities.” 

Ambrose went on before to prepare INliguel Abenali, and intreat 
his good offices, explaining that the youth’s master, who was also 
his kinsman, would be sure to give handsome payment lor any good 
offices to nim. He scarcely got out half the W'ords; the grand old 
Aiab waved his hand and said, “ When the wounded is laid before 
the tent of Ben Ali, where is the question of recompense? Peace be 
w'ith thee, my son! Bring him hither. Aklonza, lay the carpet 
yonder, and the cushions beneath the window, where 1 may have 
light to look to his hurt.” 

Therewith he murmured a few wmrds in an unknown tongue, 
which, as Ambrose maintained, w'ere an invocation to the God of 
Abraham to bless his endeavors to heal the stranger youth, but 
which happilv were spoken before the arrival of the others, who 
wmuld certainly have believed them an incantation. 

The carpet, ihough worn threadbare, was a beautiful old Moorish 
rug, once glowing witli brillianc}^ and still rich in coloring, aj^d the 
cushion wms ot tliick damask faded to a strange pale green. All in 
that double stalled partition once belonging to the great earl’s war- 
horses was scrupulously clean, for the Christian Moor had retained 
some of the peculiar virtues born of Mohammedanism and ot high 


THE armourer's prexttces. 97 

civilization. Tlie apprentice lads tramped in much as it they bad 
been entering a wizard’s cave, though Stephen had taken care to 
assure Edmund of his application ot the test of holy water. 

Following the old man’s directions, Edmund and Stephen de- 
posited their burden on the rug. Aldonza brought some warm 
■water, and Abenali washed and e.xamined the wound, Aldonza stand- 
ing by and handing him whatever he needed, now and then assist- 
ing with her slender brown hands in a manner, astonishing to the 
youths, who stood by anxious and helpless, while their companion 
began to show signs of returning life. 

Abenali pronounced that the stone had missed the eyeball, but 
the cut and bruise were such as to require constant bathing, and the 
blow on the head was the more serious matter, for when the patient 
tried to raise himself he instantly became sick and giddy, so that it 
would be wise to leave him there. This was much against the will 
of Edmund Burgess, who shared all the prejudices of the English 
prentice against the foreigner — perhaps a wizard and rival in trade; 
but there was no help for it, and he could only insist that Stephen 
should mount guard over the bed until he had reported to his mas- 
ter, and returned with his orders. Therewith he departed, with 
such elaborate thanks and courtesies to the host, as betrayed a little 
alarm in the tall apprentice who feared not quarter staff, nor 
wrestler, and had even dauntlessly confronted the masters of his 
guild! 

Stephen, sooth to say, was not very much at ease; everything 
around had such a strange un-English aspect, and he imploringly 
muttered, “ Bide with me. Am!” to which his brother willingly ivs- 
sented, being quite as comfortable in Master Michael’s abode as by 
his aunt’s own hearth. 

Giles meanwhile lay quiet, and then as his senses became less con- 
fused, and he could open one eye, be looked dreamily about him, and 
presently beg.an to demand where he was, and what had befallen 
him, grasping at the hand of Ambrose as if to hold fast by some- 
thing familiar; but he still seemed too much dazed to enter into the 
explanation, and presently murmured something about thirst. Al- 
donza came softly up with a cup of something cool. lie looked very 
hard at her, and when Ambrose would have taken it from her hand 
to give it to him, he said, ‘‘Nay! She!" 

And she, with a sweet smile in her soft, dark, shady eyes, and on 
her full lips, held the cup to his lips far more daintily and dexter- 
ously than either ot his boy companions could have done; then when 
he moaned and said his head and eye pained him, the white-bearded 
elder came and bathed his brow with the soft sponge. It seemed all 
to pass before him like a dream, and it was not much otherwise 
with his unhurt companions, especially Stephen, who followed with 
wonder the movements made by the slippered feet of father and 
daughter upon the mats which covered the stone flooring of the old 
stable. The mats w'ere only of English rushes and flags, and had 
been woven by Abenali and the child; butdoose rushes strewing the 
floor were accounted a luxury in the Forest, and even at the Dragon 
Court the upper end of the hall alone had any covering. Then the 
water was heated, and all such other operations carried on over a 
curious round vessel placed over charcoal; the window and the door 
4 


98 


THE ARMOT'RER’S PRENTICES. 

bad dark heavy curtains; and a matted partition cut off the further 
stall, no doubt to serve as Aldonza’s chamber. Stephen looked about 
for something to assure him that the place belonged to no wizard 
enchanter, and wivs glad to detect a large white cross on the wall, 
with a holy-water stoup beneath it, but of images there were none. 

It seetned to him a long time before Master Headley’s ruddy lace, 
full of anxiety, appeared at the door. 

Blows were of course no uncommon matter; perhaps so long as 
no permanent injury w'as inflicted, the master-armorer had no objec- 
tion to anything that might knoek the folly out of his troublesome 
young inmate; hut Edmund had made him uneasy for the youth’s 
eye, and still more so about the quarters he was in, and he had 
brought a mattress and a couple of men to carr 3 '^ the patient home, 
as well as Steelman, his prime minister, to advi.se him. 

He had left all these outside, however, and advanced civilly and 
condescendingly thanking the sword -cutler, in perfect ignorance that 
the man w’ho stood before him liau been born to a home that was an 
absolute palace compared with the Dragon Court. The two men 
were a curious contrast. There stood the Englishman with liis 
sturdy form inclining with age to corpulence, his broad honest lace 
telling of many a civ^ic banquet, and his short stubbl}’' brown grizzled 
beard, his whole air giving a sense of w'orshipful authorit}’’ and 
w^eight; and opposite to him the sparely made, dark, thin, aquiline- 
laced, white-bearded Moor, a far smaller man in stature, .yet with a 
patriarchal dignity, reflnement, and grace in port and countenance, 
lielonging as it were to another sphere. 

Speaking English perfectly, though with a foreign accent, Abenali 
informed MasterHeadley that his young kinsman would by Heaven’s 
blessing soon recover without injury to the eye though perhaps a 
scar might remain. 

JMr. Headley thanked him heartily for his care, and said that he 
had brought men to carry the youth home, it he could not walk; but 
when he w'ent up to the couch with a hearty “ How now, Giles? So 
thou hast had hard measure to knock the foolery out of thee, my 
poor lad. But come, we’ll have thee home, and my mother will see 
to thee.” 

‘‘ 1 cannot walk,” said Giles, heavily, hardly raising his eyes, and 
when he \vas told that two of the men waited to bear him home, he 
only entreated to he let alone. Somewhat sharply, Mr. Headley 
ordered him to sit up and make ready, and he tried to do so, but he 
sunk back with a return of sickness and dizziness. 

Abenali thereupon entreated that he might be left to his care for 
that night, and stepping out into the court so as to be unheard by 
the patient, explained that the brain had had a shock, and that per- 
fect quiet ior some liours to come was the only way )o avert a seri- 
ous illness, possibly dangerous. Master Headley did not like the 
alternative at all, and wiis a good deal perplexed. He beckoned to 
'ribble Steelman, who had all this time been talking to Lucas Han- 
sen, and now came up prepared witlihistestiinonj' that this Michael 
was a good man and true, a godly one to boot, who had been w'ealthy 
in his own land anil was a rare artifleer in his own craft. 

” Though he hath no license to irractice it here,” threw in Master 
Headley, mito voce ; but he accepted the assurance that Michael was 


99 


THE ARMOUREli’s PRENTICES. 

a good Christian, and. with his daughter, regularly went to mass, 
and since better might not be, Jie reluctantly consented to leave Giles 
under his treatment, on Lucas reiterating the assuraiice that he need 
have no fears of magic or foul play of any sort. He then took the 
purse that hung at his girdle, and declai-ed that IMaster Michael (the 
title of courtesy was wrung from him by the stately appearance of 
the old man) must be at no charges for his cousin. 

But Abenali Avith a grace that removed all air of offense from his 
manner, returned thanks for the intention, but declared that it never 
was the custom of the sons of Ali to receive reward for the hospitality 
they exercised to the stranger within their gates. And so it was that 
IVIaster Headley, a good deal puzzled, had to leave his apprentice un- 
der the roof of the old sword-cutler tor the night at least. 

“ ’Tis passing strange,’' sriidhe, as he walked back; “ 1 know not 
what my mother Aviil say, but 1 wish all may be right. 1 feel — I 
feel as if I had left the lad Giles with Abraham under the oak tree, 
as we saw him in the miracle pla}^” 

This description did not satisfy IMrs. Headley, indeed she feared 
that her son was likewise bewitched; and when, the next morning, 
Stephen, who had been sent to inquire for the patient, reported him 
better but still unable to be moved, since he could not lift his head 
without sickness, she became very anxious. Giles was transformed 
in her estimate from a cross-grained slip to poor Robin Headley’s 
boy. the only son of a widow, and nothing would content her but lo 
make her son conduct her to j\'arwick Inner Yard to inspect matteis, 
and carrj" thither a precious relic warranted proof against all sorcery. 
It was with great trepidation that the good old dame ventured, but 
the result was that she Avas fairly subdued by Abenali's patriarchal 
dignitJ^ She had never seen any manners to equal his, not even 
when King Edward the Fourth had come to her father’s house at the 
Barbican, chucked her under the chin, and called her a daintj" duck! 
It was Aldonza, however, who specially touched her feelings. Such 
a sweet little wench, with the air of being bred in a kingly or 
knightly court to be living there close to the very dregs of the city, 
was a scandal and a danger — speaking so prettily too, and knowing 
how to treat her elders. She AA'ould be a good example foi Deniiet, 
who, sooth to say, was getting too old for spoilt-child sauciness to 
be always pleasing, while as to Giles, he could not be in better quar- 
ters. ]\lrs. Headley, well used to the dressing of the burns and 
bruises incurred in the weapon smiths’ business, could not but con- 
fess that his eye had been dealt with as skillfully as she could have 
done it herself. 


chapter XI Y. 

THE KNrGIIT OK TUE BADGER. 

“ I am a gentleman of a company.” 

Shakespeare. 

Gibes Headley’s accident mu.st have amounted to concussion of 
the brain, for though he was able to return to the Dragon in a couple 
of days, and the cut over his eye Avas healing fast, he was Aveak and 
shaken, and did not for several Aveeks recover his usual health. The 
noise and heat of the smithy were distressing to him, and there was 


100 


THE AllMOUKEK H TKEKTICES. 


no choice but to let him lie on settles, sun himself on the steps, and 
attempt no work. 

It had tamed him a good deal. Smallbones said the letting out of 
malapert blood was wholesome, and others thought him still under 
a spell ; but he seemed to have parted with much of his arrogance, 
either because he had not spirits for self-assertion, or because some- 
thing of the grand eastern courtesy of Abenali had impressed him. 
For intercourse with the Morisco had by no means ceased. Giles 
went, as long the injury required it, to have the hurt dressed, and 
loitered in the Inner Yard a long time every day, often securing 
some small dainty for Aldonza— an apple, a honey cake, a bit of 
jMarch pane, a dried plum, or a domfit. One daj”^ he took her a 
couple of oranges. To his surprise, as he entered, Abenali looked up 
with a strange light in his eyes, and exclaimed, “ My son! thy scent 
is to my nostrils as the court ot my father’s house!” Then, as he 
beheld the orange, he clasped his hands, took it in them, and held it 
to his breast, porrring out a chant in an unknown tongue, while the 
tears flowed down his cheeks. 

‘‘ Father, lather!’ Aldonza cried, lerrifled, while Giles marveled 
whether the orange worked on him like a spell. But he perceived 
their amazement, and spoke again in English, ” 1 thank thee, my 
sou! Thou hast borne me back for a moment to the fountain in my 
father’s house, where )'e grow, j’-e trees ot the unfading leaf, the 
spotless blossom, and golden fruit! Ah! Ronda! Ronda! Land of 
the sunshine, the deep blue sky, and snow-topped hills! Land where 
are the graves of my father and mother, how pines and sickens the 
heart of the exile for thee! O happy they w’ho died beneath the 
sword or flame, for they knew not the lonely home-longing of the 
exile. All! ye golden fruit! One fragrant breath of thee is as a 
waft of the joys of my j'outh ! Are ye foretastes of the fruits of 
Paradise, tlie true home to which 1 may yet CQine, though I may 
never, never see the towers and hills ot Ronda more.” 

Giles knew not what to make of this outburst. He kept it to him- 
self as too strange to be told. The heads of the family were willing 
that he should carry these trifles to the young child of the man who 
would accept no reward lor his hospitalit}'. Indeed Master Headley 
spent much consideration on how to recompense the care bestowed 
on his kinsman. 

Giles suggested that Master Michael had just finished the most 
beautiful sword blade he had evei seen, and had not yet got a pur- 
chaser for it; it was far superior to the sword Tibbie had just com- 
pleted lor my Lord of Surrey. Thereat the whole court broke into 
an outcry; that any workman should be supposed to turn out any 
kind of work surpassing Steelman’s was rank heresy, and Master 
Headley bluntly told Giles that he knew not what he was talking ot! 
He might perhaps purchase the blade by way ot courtesy and return 
of kindness, but— good English workmanship for him! 

However, Giles might ask the price of the blade, and bring it to 
him to look at. When Giles returned to the court he found, in front 
of the building where finished suits were kept foi display, a tall, thin, 
wiry, elderly man, deeply bronzed, and with a scar on his brow. 
Master Headley and Tibbie wore both in attendance, Tib measuring 
the stranger, and Stephen, who was standing at a respectful distance, 


THE ARMOUEER’S PRENTICES. 


101 


gave Giles theinformation that this was the famous Captain of Free 
lances, Sir John Fulford, who had fought in all the wars in Italy, 
and was going to fight in them again, but wanted a suit ot “ our 
harness. ’ ’ 

The information was hardly needed, for Sir John, in a voice loud 
enough to lead his men to the battle-field, and with all manner of 
strong asseverations in all sorts ot languages, was explaining the dints 
and blows that had befallen the mail he had had trom Master Ilead- 
le}' eighteen years ago, when he w’as but a squire; how his helmet 
had endured tough blows, and saved his head at Novara, but had 
been crushed like an egg shell by a stone from the walls at Barletta, 
which had nearly beer his own destruction; and how that which he 
at present wore (beautifully chased and in a classical form)w^as taken 
trom a dead Italian count on the field of Ravenna, but always sat 
amiss on him; and how he had broken his goou sword upon one of 
the rascally Swiss only a couple of months ago atMarignano. Hav- 
ing likewise disabled his right arm, and being well off through the 
payment of some ransoms, he had come home partly to look after 
his family, and partly to provide himself with a full suit of English 
harness, his present suit being a patchwork of relics of numerous 
battle fields. Only one thing he desired, a true Spanish sword, not 
only Toledo or Bilboa in name, but nature. He had seen execution 
done by the weapons of the soldiers of the great captain, and been 
witness to the endurance ot their metal, which made him demand 
whether Master Headley could provide him with the like. 

Giles took the moment tor stepping forward and putting Abenali’s 
work into the master’s hand. The Condottiere was in raptures. 
He pronounced it as perfect a weapon as Gonzalo de Cordova him- 
self could possess; showed off its temper and his own dexterity by 
piercing and slicing an old cuirass, and invited the bystanders to let 
him put it to further proof by letting him slice through an apple 
jilaced on the open palm of the hand. 

Giles’ friendship could not carry him so far as to make the vent- 
ure; Kit Smallbones observed that he had a wife and children and 
could not afford to risk his good ri^ht hand on a wandering soldier’s 
bravado; Edmund was heard saying, “Nay, nay, Steve, don’t be 
such a tool,’’ but Stephen was declaring he would not have the fel- 
low say that English lads hung back from w’hat rogues of France 
and Italy would dare. 

“ No danger for him who winceth not,” said the knight. 

IMaster Headley, a very peacetul citizen in his composition in spite 
of his trade, was much inclined to torbid Stephen from the experi- 
ment, but he refrained, ashamed and unwilling to daunt a high 
spirit, and half the household, eager for the excUemeut, rushed to the 
kitchen in quest of apples, and brought out all the women to behold, 
and add a clamor of remonstrance. Sir John, however, insisted that 
they should all be ordered back again. “ Not that the noise and 
clamor of women folk makes any odds to me,” said the grim old 
warrior, “ I’ve seen too many towns taken tor that, but it might 
make the lad queasy, and cost him a thumb or so.” 

Of course, this renewed the dismay and excitement, and both 
Tibbie and his master entreated Stephen to give up the undertaking 
if he telt the least misgiving as to his own steadiness, arguing that 


102 THE ARHOURER’s PRENTICES. 

they should not think him any more a craven than they did Kit 
Smallbones or Edmund Burgess. But Stephen’s mind was made 
up, his spirit was high, aud he was resolved to go through with it. 

rie held out his open hand, a rosy-cheeked apple was carefully laid 
on it. The sword flashed through the air— divided in half the apple, 
which remained on Stephen’s palm. There was a sharp shriek from a 
window, drowned in the acclamations of the whole court, while the 
captain patted Stephen on the shoulder, exclaiming, “Well done, 
my lad. There’s the making of a tall fellow in thee! If ever thou 
art weary of making weapons and wouldst use them instead, seek 
out John Fnlford, of the Badger troop, and thou shalt have a wel- 
come. Our name is the Badger, because there’s no troop like us for 
digging out mines beneath the walls,’’ 

A few mouths ago such an invitation would have been bliss to 
Steiflien. Now he was bound in all honor and dut}' to his master, 
and could only thank the knight of the Badger, and cast a regretful 
eye at him, as he drank a cup of wine, flung a bag of gold and 
silver, supplemented by a heavy chain, to blaster Headley, who 
prudently declined working' for Free Companions, irnless he were 
paid beforehand; and, at the knight’s request, took charge of a 
sufficient amount to pay his fare back again to the Continent. Then 
moiiutine a tall, lean, bony horse, the iTnight said he should call for 
his armor on returning from Somerset, and rode oiT, while Stephen 
found himself exalted as a hero in the eyes of his companions for an 
act common enough at feats of arms among modern cavalry, but 
(juite new to the London flat caps. The only sufferer was little 
Dennet, who had burst into an agony of crying at the sight, needed 
that Stephen should spread out both hands before her, and show her 
the divided apple, before she would believe that his thumb was in its 
right place; and at night screamed out in her sleep that the ill-favored 
man was cutting off Stephen’s hands. , 

The sword was left behind by Sir .lohn in order that it might be 
fitted witlr a scabbard and belt worthy of it; and on examination. 
Master Headley and Tibbie both confessed that they could produce 
nothing equal to it in workmanship, though Kit looked with con- 
tempt at the slight wmapou of deep blue steel, with lines meandering 
on it like a watered silk, and the upper part inlaid with gold wire in 
exquisite arabesque patterns. He called it a mere toy, and muttered 
somethin,^ about sorcery and men who had been in foreign parts, 
not thinking honest weight of English steel good enough for them. 

Master Headley would not trust one of the boys with the good 
silver coins that had been paid as the price of the sword — French 
crowns and Milanese ducats, with a few Venetian gold bezants — but 
he bade them go as guards to Tibbie, for it was always a perilous thing 
to carry a sum of money through the London streets. Tibbie was 
not an unwilling messenger. He knew iMaster jMichael to be some- 
what of his own way of thinking, and he was a naturally large- 
minded man who could appreciate skill higher thau his own without 
jealousy. Indeed, he and his master held a private consultation on 
the mode of establishing a connection with Michael and profiting by 
his ability. 

To have lodged him ut the Dragon Court and made him part of 
the establishment might have seemed the most obvious, but the 


303 


THE AR.MOUREr’s PREKTIOES. 

(logged Englisli hatred and contempt of foreigners would have ren- 
dered this impossible, even if Abenali himself would have consented 
to give up his comparative seclusion and live in a crowd and turmoil. 

But he was thankful to receive and execute orders from Master 
Headley, since so certain a connection would secure Aldonza from 
privation such as the child had sometimes had to endure in the win- 
ter; when, though the abstemious Eastern nature needed little food, 
there was great suffering from cold and lack of fuel. And Tibbie 
moreover asked questions and begged for instructions in some of the 
secrets of the art. It was an effort to such a prime artificer as 
Steelman to ask instruction from any man, especially a foreigner, but 
Tibbie had a nature of no common orcler, and set perfection far 
above class prejudice, and moreover he felt Abenali to be one of 
those men who had their inner eyes devotedly fixed on the truth, 
though little knowing where the quest would lead them. 

On his side Abenali underwent a struggle. “ Woe is me!” he 
said. ” Wettest thou, my son, that the secrets of the sword of light 
and swiftness are the heritage that Abdallah Ben Ali brought from 
Damascus in the hundred and fifty-third year of the flight of him 
whom once I termed the prophet; nor have they departed from our 
house, but have been handed on from father to son. And shall they 
be used in the wars of the stranger and the Christian V” 

” 1 feared it might be thus,” said Tibbie. 

” And yet,” went on the old man, as if not hearing him, ” where- 
fore should 1 guard the secret any longer? ]\Ij' sons? Where are 
they? They brooked not the scorn and hatred of the Castilian, 
which poisoned to them the new faith. They cast in their lot with 
their owm people, and that their bones may lie bleaching on the 
mountains is the best lot that can have befallen the children of my 
youth and hope. The house of 3Iiguel Abeali is desolate u and 
childless, save tor the little maiden who sits by my hearth in the 
land of my exile! Why should 1 guard it longer for him who may 
wed her, and whom I may never behold? The will of Heaven be 
done! Young man, if I bestow this knowledge on thee, wilt thou 
swear to be as a father to my daughter, and to care for her as thine 
own?” 

It was a good while since Tibbie had been called a young man, 
and as he listened to the flowing Eastern periods in their foreign 
enunciation, he was for a moment afraid that the price of the secret 
was that he should become the old floor's son-in-law! His seared 
and scarred youth had precluded marriage, and he entertained the 
low opinion of women, frequent in men of superior intellect 
among the uneducated. BesMes, the possibilities of giving umbrage 
to Church authorities were dawning on him, and he was not willing 
to form any domestic ties, so that in every way such a proposition 
would have been unwelcome to him. But he had no objection to 
pledge himself to fatherly guardianship of theprett}' child in case of 
a need that might never arise. So he gave the promise, and became 
a pupil of Abenali, visiting Warwick Inner Yard with his master’s 
consent whenever lie could be spared, while the workmanship at the 
Dragon began to profit thereb3^ 

The jealousy of the Eagle was proportionately incrciised. Aider- 
man Browurigg, the head of the Eagle, was friendly enough to Mr. 


104 THE ARMOUEER'S PREHTTCES. 

Headley, but it was undeniable that they were the rival armorers of 
London, dividing the favors of the Court equallj"^ between them, 
and the bitterness of the emulation increased the lower it went in the 
establishment. The prentices especially could hardly meet without 
gibes and sneers if nothing worse, and Stephen’s exploit had a 
peculiar flavor because it was averred that no one at the Eagle would 
have done the like. 

But it was not till the Sunday that Ambrose chanced to hear of 
the feat, at which he turned quite pale, but he was prouder of it 
than any one else, and although he rejoiced that he had not seen it 
performed, he did not tail to boast of it at home, though Perronel 
began by declaring that she did not care for the mad pranks of roister- 
ing prentices, but presently she paused, as she stirred her grand- 
father’s evening posset, and said, “ whatsaidst thou was the strange 
soldier’s name?” 

‘‘Fulford — Sir John Fulford ” — said Ambrose. “What? 1 
thought not of it, is not that gaffer’s name?” 

“ Fulford, yea! Mayhap — ” and Perronel sat down and gave an 
odd sort of laugh of agitation — “ Mayhap ’tis mine own father.” 

“ Shouldst thou know him, good aunt?” cried Ambrose much ex- 
cited. 

“ Scarce,” she said. “ 1 was not seven years old when he went to 
the wars — if so be he lived through the battle — and he recked little 
of me, being but a maid. 1 feared him greatly and so did my moth- 
er. ’Twas happier with only gaffer? Where saidst thou he was 
gone?” 

Ambrose could not tell, but he undertook to bring Stephen to an- 
swer all queries on the subject. His replies that the captain was 
gone in quest of his family to Somersetshire settled the matter, since 
there had been old IVIartin Fulfoid’s abode, and there John Fulford 
had parted with his wife and father. They did not, however, tell 
the old man of the possibility of his son’s being at home; he had lit- 
tle memory, and was easily thrown into a state of agitation; besides 
it was a doubtful matter how the Condottiere would feel as to the 
present fortunes of the family. Stephen was to look out for his re- 
turn in quest of his suit of armor, inform him of his father’s being 
alive, and show him the way to the little house by the Temple 
Gardens, but Perronel gave the strictest injunctions that her hus- 
band’s profession should not be explained. It would be quite 
enough to say that he w'as of the Lord Cardinal’s household. 

Stephen watched, but the armor was finished and Christmas passed 
by before anything was seen of the captain. At last, however, he 
did descend on the Dragon Court, looking so dilapidated that Mr. 
Headley rejoiced in the having received payment beforehand. He 
was louder voiced, and fuller of strange oaths than ever, and in the 
utmost haste, for he had heard tidings that “ there was to be a lusty 
game between the emperor and the Italians, and he must have his 
share.” 

Stephen made his way up to speak to him, and w'as received with 
“ Ha, my gallant lad! Art w^eary of hammer and anvil? Wouldst 
be a brave Badger, slip thine indentures, and hear helm and lance 
ring in good earnest?” 


THE ARMOrRER'S I'KEISTTICES. 105 

“ Not SO, sir,” said Stephen, ” but 1 have been bid to ask if thou 
hast found thy father?” 

“ What’s that to thee, stripling^ When thou hast cut thy wis- 
dom teeth, thou’lt know old fathers be not so easy found. ’Twas a 
wild goose chase, and 1 wot not what moved me to run after it. 1 
met jolly comrades enough, bumpkins that could drink with an hon- 
est soldier when they saw him, but not one that ever heard the 
name of Fulford.” 

” Sir,” said Stephen, “ 1 know an old man named Fulford. His 
granddaughter is my aunt, and they dwell by the Temple.” 

The intelligence seemed more startling and less gratifying than 
Stephen had expected. Sir John demanded whether they were poor, 
and declared that he had better have heard of them when his purse 
■was fuller. He had supposed that his wife had given him up and 
found a fresh mate, and when he heard of her death, he made an 
exclamation which might be pity, but had in it something of relief. 
He showed more interest about his old father, and supposed his 
daughter was mairied. If he had been a lad now, a’ might have 
been a stout comrade by this time, ready to do the Badger credit. 
Yea, his poor Kate was a good lass, but she was only a Flemish wom- 
an and hadn’t the sense to rear aught but a whining little wench, 
■who was of no good except to turn fool’s heads, and he suiiposed 
she was weddfl and past all that by this time. 

Stephen explained that she was wedded to his uncle, one of the 
lord cardinal’s meine. 

” Ho!” said the Condottiere, pausing, “ be that the butcher’s boy 
that is pouring oat his gold to buy scarlet hats, it not the three 
crowns? ’Tis no bad household wherein to have a footing. Saidst 
thou 1 should find my wench and the old gafl;er there?” 

Stephen had to explain, somewhat to the disappointment of the 
captain, who had, as it appeared, in the company of three or four 
more adventurous spirits like himself, taken a passage in a vessel 
lying oft Gravesend, and had only turned aside to take up his new 
armor and his deposit of passage-money. He demurred a little, he 
had little time to spare, and though, of course, he could take boat 
at the Temple Stairs, and drop down the river, he observed that it 
would have been a very different thing to go home to the old man 
when he first came back with a pouch full of ransoms and plunder 
whereas now he had barely enough to carry him to the place of meet- 
ing with his Badgers. And there was the wench too — he had fairly 
forgotten her name. Women were like she-wolves for greed when 
they had a brood of whelps. 

Stephen satisfied him that there W'as no danger on that score, and 
heard him muttering that it .was no harm to secure a safe harbor in 
case a man hadn’t the luck to be knocked on the head ere he grew 
too old to trail a pike. And he would fain see the old man. 

So permission was asked for Stephen to show the w^ay to blaster 
Randall’s, and granted somewdiat reluctantly, ]\laster Headle.y' say- 
ing, ‘‘ I’ll have thee back within an hour, Steplieu Birkenholt, and 
look thou dost not let thy brain be set afire with this fellow’s windy 
talk of battles and sieges, and deeds only fit for pagans and wolves. ” 

“Ay!” said Tibbie, pcihaps with a memory of the old fable, 
” better be the trusty mastiff than the wolf.” 


106 THE armourer’s prentices. 

And like the wolf twitting the mastiff with his chain, the soldier 
was no sooner outside the door of the Dragon Court before he began 
to express his wonder how a lad of mettle could put up with a flat 
cap, a blue gown, and the being at the beck and call of a greasy 
burgher, w^hen a bold, handsome young knave like him might have 
the world before him and his stout pike. 

Stephen was flattered, but scarcely tempted. The hard selfishness 
and want of affection of the Condottiere shocked him, while he looked 
about, hoping some of his acquaintance would see him in company 
with this tall figure clanking in shining armor, and with a knightly 
helmet and gilt spurs. The armor, new and brilliant, concealed the 
worn and shabby leathern dress beneath and gave the tall, spare fig- 
ure a greater breadth, diminishing the look of a hungry wolf which 
Sir John Fulford’s aspect suggested. However, as he passed some 
of the wealthier stalls, where the apprentices, seeing the martial fig- 
ure, shouted, “ What d’ye lack, sir knight?” and offered silk and 
velvet robes and mantles, gay sword knots, or even rich chains, 
under all the clamor, Stephen heard him swearihg by St. George 
what a place this would be for a sack, if his Badgers were behind 
liim. 

‘‘ If that poor craven of a \Varbeck had had a spark of valor in 
him,” quoth he, as he passed a stall gay with bright tankards and 
flagons, ” we would have rattled some of that shining gear about 
the lazy citizen’s ears! He, jolly King Edward’s son! I’ll never give 
faith to it! To turn his back when there was such a booty to be 
had for the pi under iug.” 

‘‘ He might not have found it so easy. Our trainbands are sturdy 
enough,” said Stephen, whose esprit de corps was this time on the 
Honcloners’ side, but the Knight of the Badger snapped his fingers, 
and said, ‘‘ So much for your burgher trainbands! All they be good 
for with their show of fight is to give honest landsknechts a good 
reason to fall on to the plunder, if so be one is hampered by a 
squeamish prince. But grammercy to St. George, there be not manj'^ 
of that sort after they be once fleshed!” 

Perhaps a year ago, when fresh from the Forest, Stephen might 
have been more captivated by the notion of adventure and conquest. 
Now that he had his place in the community and looked on a civic 
jiosition with wholesome ambition, Fulford’s longings for havoc in 
these peaceful streets made his blood run cold. He was glad when 
they reached their destination, and he saw Perronel with bare arms 
taking in some linen cuffs and bands from a line across to the op- 
posite wall. He could only call out, ” Good naunt, here he be.” 

Perronel turned round, the color rising in her cheeks, with an 
obeisance, but trembling a good deal. ” How now, wench? thou art 
grown a buxom dame. Thou makest an old man of me,” said tbe 
soldier with a laugh. ” Where’s my father? 1 have not the turn- 
ing of a cup to stay, for I’m come home poor as a cat in a plundered 
town, and am off to the wais again; but hearing that the old man 
was nigh at hand, 1 came this way to see him, and let thee know 
thou art a knight’s daughter. Thou art indifferent comely, girl, 
what’s thy name? but not the peer of thy mother when 1 wooed her 
as one of the bonny lasses of Bruges.” 

He gave a kind of embrace, while she gave a kind of gasiJ of 


THE armourer’s PRENTICES. 


107 


“ Welcome, sir,” and glanced somewhat reproachfully at (Stephen 
for not having given her more warning. The cause of her dismay 
was plain as the captain, giving her no time to precede him, strode 
into the little chamber, where Hal Randall, without his false beard 
or hair,, and in his parti-colored horse, was seated by the cupboard- 
like bed, assisting old Martin Fultord to take his midday meal. 

“ Be this thine husband, girl? Ha! ha! He's more like a jolly 
friar come in to make thee merry when the good man is out!” ex- 
claimed the visitor, laughing loudly at his own rude jest; but heed- 
ing little either Hal’s appearance or his reply, as he caught the old 
man’s bewildered eyes, and heard his efforts to utter his name. 

For eighteen years had altered John Fulford less than either his 
father or his daughter, and old Martin recognized him instantly, 
and held out the only arm he could use, while the knight, softened, 
touched, and really feeling more natural affection than Stephen had 
given him credit for, dropped on his knee, breaking into indistinct 
mutterings with rough but hearty greetings, regretting that he had 
not found his lather sooner, when his pouch was full, lamenting the 
change in him, declaring that he must hurry away now, but promis- 
ing to come back with sacks of Italian ducats to provide for the old 
man. 

Those who could interpret the imperfect utterance, now further 
choked by tears and agitation, knew that there wms a medley of 
broken rejoicings, blessings and weepings, in the midst of which the 
soldier, glad perhaps to end a scene where he became increasingly 
awkward and embarrassed, started up, hastily kissed the old man 
on each of his wdthered cheeks, gave another kiss to his daughter, 
threw her two Venetian ducats, bidding her spend them for the old 
man, and he would bring a pouchful more next time, and striding 
to the door, bade Stephen call a boat, to take Him down to Gravesend. 

Randall, who had in the meantime donned his sober black gown 
in the inner chamber, together with a dark hood, accompanied his 
newly found father-in-law down the river, and Stephen would tain 
have gone too, but for the injunction to return within the hour. 

Perronel had hurried back to her grandfather’s side to endeavor 
to compose him after the shock of gladness. But it had been too 
much for his enfeebled powers. Another stroke came on before the 
day was over, and in two or three days more old Martin Fulford 
was laid to rest, and his son’s ducats were expended on masses for 
his soul’s welfare. 


CHAPTER XV. 

HEAV^: HALF A BRICK AT HIM. 

“ For strangers then did so increase. 

By reason of King Henry’s queen. 

And privileged in many a place 
To dwell, as was in London seen. 

Poor tradesmen had small dealing then, 

And who but strangers bore the bell. 

Which was a grief to Englishmeu 
To see them here in London dwell.” 

Ill May Day, by Churchill, a Contempora^-y Poet. 

Time passed on, and Edmund Burgess, who had been sent from 
York to learn the perfection of his craft, completed his term and re- 


108 


THE ARMOUREE’s PREXTICES. 


turned to his home, much regretted in the Dragon Court, where his 
good humor and good sense had always kept tlie peace, both within 
and without. 

Giles Headley was now the eldest prentice. He was in every way 
greatly impioved, thoroughlj’^ accepting his position, and showing 
himself quite ready both to learn and to work; but he had not the 
will or the power of avoiding disputes with outsiders, or turning 
them aside with a merry jest, and rivalries and quarrels with the 
armory at the Eagle began to increase. The Dragon, no doubt, 
turned out finer workmanship, and this the Eagle alleged was wholly 
owing to nefarious traffic with the old Spanish or Moorish .sorcerer 
in Warwick Inner Yard, a thing umvorthy of honest Englishmen. 
This made Giles furious, and the cry never failed to end in a fight, 
in which Stephen supported the cause of the one house, and George 
Bates and his comrades that of the other. 

It was the same with even the archery at Mile End, where the 
butts were erected, and the youth contended with the long bow, 
which was still considered as the safeguard of England. King 
Henry often looked in on these matches, and did honor to the win- 
ners. One match there w'as in especial in IMolhering Sunday, when 
the champions of each guild shot against one another at such a range 
that it needed a keen eye to seethe popinjay — astuSed bird at which 
they shot. 

Stephen was one of these, his forest lore having always given him 
an advantage over many of the othere. He even was one of the last 
three who Avere to finish the sport by shooting against one another. 
One was a butcher named Barlow. The other was a Walloon, the 
best shot among six hundred foreigners of various nations, all of 
whom, though with little encouragement, joined in the national 
sport on these pleasant spring afternoons. The first contest threw 
out the Walloon, at which there were cries ot ecstasy, now the trial 
Avas betAA^een Barlow and Stephen, and in this final effort, the dis- 
tance of the pole to which the popinjay was fastened was so much 
increased that strength of aim told as much as accuracy ot aim, and 
Stephen’s sixteen years’ old muscles could not, after so long a strain, 
cope with those ot Balph Barlow, a butcher of full thirty years old. 
His wrist and arm began to shake with weariness, and only one of 
his three last arroAvs went stiaight to the mark, while Barlow was as 
steady as ever, and never once failed. Stephen Avas bitterly disap- 
pointed, his eyes tilled Avith tears, and he flung himself down on the 
turf, teeling as if the shouts ot “ A Barlow! a Barlow!” which were 
led by the jovial voice ot King Harry himself, were all exulting over 
him. 

Barlow was led up to the king, who hailed him ” King of Shore- 
ditch,” a title borne by the champion archer ever after, so long as 
bowmanship in earnest lasted. A tankard which the king filled 
with silver pieces was his prize, but Henry did not forget No. 2. 
” Where’s the other fellow?” he said. “ He was but a stripling, 
and to my mind, his teat Avas a greater maivel than that of a stal- 
wart fellow like Barlow.” 

Half a dozen of the spectators, among them the cardinal’s jester, 
hurried in search of Stephen, who Avas "roused from his fit ot Avean- 
ness iurd disappointment by a shake of the shoulder and his imcle’s 


THE AHMOERER’a RREXTICES. 


109 


jinglin" bis bells in bis ears, and exclaiming, “ How now, bci’e 1 
bwnacousin!” Stephen sat up and stared with angr}’- astonished eyes, 
but onlj^ met a laugh. “ Ay, ay, ’tis but striplings and tools that 
have tears to spend for such as this! Up, boy! D’ye hear? The 
other Hal is asking for thee.” 

And Stephen, luistily brushing away his tears, and holding his fiat 
cap in his hand, was marshaled across the mead, hot, shy, and in- 
dignant, as the jester mopped and mowed, and cut all sorts ot antics 
before him, turning round to observe in an encouraging voice, 
” Pluck up a heart, man. One wmuld think Hal was going to cut 
off thine head!” And then, on arriving where the king sat on his 
horse, ” Here he is, Hal, such its he is! come humbly to crave thy 
gracious pardon for hitting the mark no better! He’ll mend his 
wa 3 'S, good my lord, it your grace will pardon him this time.” 

“Ay, marry, and that will 1,” said the king. ‘‘The springald 
bids fair to be King of Shoreditch by ttie time the other fellow abdi- 
cates. How old art thou, my lad?” 

‘‘Sixteen, an it please your grace,” said Stephen, in the grufl 
voice of his age. 

‘‘ And thj' name?” 

‘‘ Stephen Birkenholt, my liege,” and he wondered whether lie 
would be recognized; but Henry onl}"^ said — 

‘‘ lilethinks I’ve seen those sloe-black ej’es before. Or is it only 
that the lad is thy very marrow, quipsome one?” 

‘‘ The which,” returned the jester gravely, while Stephen tingled 
all over with dismay, ‘‘ may account for the tears the lad was wast- 
ing at not having the thews of the fellow double his age! But 1 envy 
him not! Not 1! He’ll never have wit for mine office, but will 
come in second there likewise.” 

‘‘ I dare be sworn he will,” said the king. “ Here, take this, my 
good lad, and prank thee in it w'hen thou art out of thy time, and 
goest a-hunting in Epping!” 

ll was a handsome belt with a broad silver clasp, engraven with 
the Tudor rose and portcullis; and Stephen bow’ed low and made his 
acknowledgments as best he might. 

He was hailed with rapturous acclamations by his own contem- 
poraries, who held that he had saved the credit of the English pren- 
tice world, and insisted on carrying him enthroned on their shoulders 
back to Cheapside, in emulation of the journeymen and all the 
butcher kind, who were thus bearing home the King of Shoreditch. 

Shouts, halloos, whistles, every jubilant noise tliat 3 'outh and 
bo 5 diood could invent, were the trumphant music of Stephen on his 
surging and uneasy throne, as he w'as shifted from one bearer to 
another, when each in turn grew tired of his wmight. Just, how'- 
ever, as they were nearing tlieir own neighborhood, a counter cr 3 ’^ 
broke out, “ Witchcraft! His arrows are bewitched by theold Span- 
ish sorcerer! Down with dragons and wizards!” And a handful 
of mud came full in the face ot the enthroned lad, aimed no doubt 
by George Bates. There was a 3 'ell and rush ot rage, but the enemy 
was in numbers too small to attempt resistance, and dashed off be- 
fore their pursuers, onl 3 ' pausing at safe corners to shout Partliian 
darts of ‘‘ Wizards,” ‘‘ Magic,” ‘‘ Sorcerers,” *• Heretics.” 

There was nothing to be done but to collect again, and escort 


no THE AinrOUREU's PREIS^^TTCES. 

Stephen, who had wiped the mud off his face, to the Dragon C'ourt, 
where Dennet danced on the steps for joy, and Master Headley, not 
a little gratified, promised Stephen a supper for a dozen of his par- 
ticular friends at Armorers’ Hall on the ensuing Easter Sunday. 

Of course Stephen went in search of his brother, all the more 
eagerly because he was conscious that they had of late drifted apart 
a good deal. Ambrose was more and more absorbed by the studies 
to which Lucas Hansen led him, and look less and less interest in 
his brother’s pursuits. He did indeed come to the Sunda 3 ’’’s dinner 
according to the regular custom, but the moment it was permissible 
to leave the board he was away with Tibbie Steelman to meet friends 
of Lucas, and pursue studies, as if, Stephen thought, he had not 
enough of books as it was. When Dean Colet preached or cate- 
chized in St. Paul’s in the afternoon they both attended and list- 
ened, but that good man was in failing health, and his wise dis- 
courses were less frequent. 

Where they were at other times, Stephen did not know, and 
hardly cared, except that he had a general dislike to, and jealousy 
of, anything that took his brother’s sjmipathy away from him. 
IMoreover Ambrose’s face was thinner and paler, he had a strange 
absorbed look, and often even when they were together seemed 
hardly to attend to what his brother was saying. 

“ 1 will make him come,” said Stephen to himself, as he went 
Avith swinging gait toward Warwick Inner Yard, where, sure enough, 
he found Ambrose sitting at the door, frowning over some black let- 
ter which looked most uninviting in the eyes of the apprentice, and 
he fell upon his brother with half angry, half merry reproofs for 
wasting tire fine spring afternoon over such studies. 

Ambrose looked up with a dreamy smile and greeted his brother, 
but all the time Stephen was narrating the history of the match (and 
he did tell the fate of each individual arrow of his own or Barlow’s) 
his eyes were wandering back to the crabbed page in his hand, and 
Avhen Stephen impatientl}'^ Avound up his history A\'ith the invitation 
to supper on Easter Sunday, the reply aa'os, ‘‘ JSay, brother, thanks, 
but that 1 cannot do.” 

“Cannot!” exclaimed Stephen. 

“ Nay, there are other matters in hand that go deeper.” 

“ Yea, 1 know whatever concerns musty books goes deeper with 
thee than thj" brother,” replied Stephen, turning aAvay much morti- 
fied. 

Ambrose’s Avarm nature was awakened. He held his brother by 
the arm and declared himself anything but indifferent to him, biu 
he owned that he did not love noise and revelry, above all on Sun- 
day. 

“Thou art addling thy brains with preachings!” said Stephen. 
“ Pray Heaven they make not a heretic of thee. But thou mightest 
for once have come to mine own feast.” 

Ambrose, much perplexed and grieved at thus vexing his brother 
declared that he would haA’^e done so with all his hearth but that this 
very Easter Sunday there AA'as coming a friend of blaster Hansen’s 
from Holland, who was to tell them much of the teaching in Ger- 
many, which was so enlightening men’s ej^es. 

“ Yea, truly, making heretics of them, Mistress Headley saith,” 


Ill 


TUK All.MOL'UEIi’S PKEXTJ.CES. 

returned Stephen. “ O Ambrose, if thou wilt run after these books 
and parchments, canstnotdoit in right fashion, among holy monks, 
as of old?” 

“ Holy monks!” repealed Ambrose. ‘‘Holy monks! Where be 
they?” 

Stephen stared at him. 

” Hear Uncle Hal talk of monks whom he sees at my lord car- 
dinal’s table! What holiness is there among them? Men, that have 
vowed to renounce all worldly and carnal things Haunt like peacocks 
and revel like swine— my lord cardinal with his silver pillars fore- 
most of them! He poor and mortified! ’Tis verily as our uncle 
saith, be plays the least false and shametul part there!” 

” Ambrose, Ambrose, thou wilt be distraught, poring over these 
matters (hat were never meant for lads like us! Do but come and 
drive them out for once with mirth and good fellowship.” 

“ 1 tell thee, Stephen, what thou callest mirth and good fellowship 
do but drive the pain in deeper, bin in guilt be everywhere. 1 
seem to see the devils putting foul words on the tongue and ill-deeds 
in the hands of myself and all around me, that they muj’^ accu.se us 
before God. No, Stephen, 1 cannot, cannot come. 1 must go where 
1 can hear of a better way.” 

” Nay,” said Stephen, ‘‘ what better way can there be than to be 
shriven — clean shiiveu — and then houseled, as 1 was ere Lent, and 
trust to be again on next Low Sunday morn? Thai’s enough for a 
plain lad.” He crossed himself reverently, ‘‘.Mine own Lordpar- 
doneth and cometh to me. ” 

But the two minds, one simple and practical, the other sensitive 
and speculative, did not move in the same atmosphere, and could not 
understand one another. Ambrose was in the condition of excite- 
ment and bewilderment produced by the first stirrings of the Refor- 
mation upon enthusiastic minds. He had studied the Vulgate, 
made out something of the Greek Testament, read all fragments of 
the fathers that came in his way, and also all the controversial 
‘‘ tractates,” Latin or Dutch, that he could meet with, and attended 
many a secret conference between Lucas and his friends, wdieu men, 
coming from Holland or Germany, communicated accounts of the 
wmrking of the zeal of Luther, and the attempts of his enemies to 
silence him. 

He was wretched under the continual tossings of his mind. "Was 
the entire existing system a vast delusion, blinding the e}’es and de- 
slro 3 ing the souls of those ■who trusted to it, and was the only safety 
in the one point of faith that Luther pressed on all, and ought idl 
that he had hitherto revered to crumble down to let that alone be 
upheld? Whatever he had once loved and honored at times seemed 
to him a lie, while at others real affection and veneration, and dread 
of sacrilege made him shudder at himself and his own doubts! It 
was his one thought, and he passionately sought after all those secret 
conferences which did but feed the flame that consumed him. 

The elder men who were with him were not thus agitated. 
Lucas’s convictions had long been fixed. He did not court observa- 
tion nor do anything unnecessaril}'- to bring persecution on himself, 
but he quietly and secretly acted as an agent in dispersing the 
Lutheran literature, and lived in the conviction that there would ono 


112 


THE AIOIOUKER’s TIIEXTICES. 


dii}' be a great crash, believing biinselt to be doing his part by nnder- 
mming the structuie, and working on undoubtingly. Abenali was 
not aggressive. In fact, though he was reckoned among Lucas’s 
part3^ because ot his abstinence from all cult of saints or images, 
and the persecution he had suffered, he did not join in their general 
opinions, and held aloof from their meetings. And Tibbie Steel- 
man, as hiis been before said, liveil two lives, and that as foreman at 
the Dragon Court, being habitual to him, and requiring much 
thought and exertion, the speculations of the reformers were to him 
more like an intellectual relaxation than the business of life. He 
took them as a modern artisan would in this da}^ read his newspaper, 
and attend his club meeting. 

Ambrose, however, had the enthhsiastic practicalness of youth. 
On that which he fully believed, he must act, and what did he fully 
believe? 

Boy as he was — scarcely yet eighteen— the toils and sports that de- 
lighted his brother seemed to him like toys amusing infants on the 
verge of an abyss, and he spent his leisure either in searching in the 
V ulgate for something to give him absolute direction, or in going in 
search of preacheis, for with the stirring of men’s minds, sermons 
were becoming more frequent. 

There was much talk just now of the preaching of one Dr. Beale, 
to whom all the tradesmen, journej'men, and apprentices w'ere re- 
sorting. even those who wore ot no special religious tendencies. 
Ambrose \vent on Easter Tuesdaj"^ to hear him preach at St. Mary’s 
Spitall. The place was crowded with artificer, and Beale began by 
telling them that he had had “ a pitiful bill,” meaning a letter, 
brought to him declaring how aliens and strangers were conring in 
to inhabit the city and suburbs to eat the bread from poor fatherless 
children, and lake the living from all artificers, and the inteicouree 
Irom merchants, wherein' poverty w.os so much increased that each 
bewailel lithe misery of others. Presently coming to his text, ” Ca-lum 
cipU Domini, Urram autemdeditjiliis Jiotmnis ” dhe Heaven of Heavens 
is the Lord’s, the earth hath He given to the children of men), the 
doctor inculcated that England was given to Englishmen, and that 
as birds would defend their nests, so ought Englishmen to defend 
themselves, andtolmrt and grieve aliens for the common iceal! The 
corollary a good deal resembled that ot “ hate thine enemy ” which 
was foisted by ” them of the old time” upon ” thou shalt love thy 
neighbor.” And the doctor went on uixm the text, “ Pugnapro 
])utrid,” to demonstrate that fighting for one’s countrj' meant rising 
upon and expelling all the strangers who dwelt and traded within it. 
IManj'^ ot these foreigners were from the Hanse towns which had 
special commercial privileges, there were also numerous Venetians 
and Genoese, French anef Spaniards, the last of whom were above 
all, ihe Objects ot dislike. Their imports ot silks, cloth of gold, 
stamped leather, wine and oil, and their superior skill in many handi- 
crafts had put English wares out of fashion, and their exports of 
wool, tin, and lead excited ecpial jealousy, which Dr. Beale, insti- 
gated as was M'ell known, bj' a broker named John Lincoln, was 
thus stirring up into fierce passion. His sermon was talked ot all 
over London; blacker looks than ever were directed at the aliens, 
stones and dirt were thrown at them, and even Ambrose, jis he 


THE ARMOUEEK’s PRENTICES. 113 

walked along llie street, was reviled as the Dutclikin’s knave. The 
insults became each day more daring and outrageous. George Bates 
and a skinner’s apprentice named Sludley were caught in the act of 
tripping up a portly old Flanderkin and forthwith sent to Newgate, 
and there were other arrests, which did but inflame the smoldering 
rage of the mob. Some ot the wealthier foreigners, taking warning 
by the signs of danger, left the city, for there could be uo doubt that 
the whole of London and the suburbs were in a combustible condi- 
tion of discontent, needing only a spark to set it alight. 

It was just about this time that a disreputable clerk — a lewd 
priest, as Hall calls him — a hanger on ot the house of Howard, was 
guilty of an insult to a citizen’s wife as she was quietly walking 
home through the Cheap. Her husband and brother, who were 
nearer at hand than he guessed, avenged the outrage with such good 
wills that this disgrace to the priesthood was lei t dead on the ground. 
When such things happened, and discourses like Beale’s were heard, 
it was not surprising that Ambrose’s faith in the clergy as guides 
received severe shocks. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

MAY EVE. 

“ The rich, the poor, the old, the young. 

Beyond the seas though born and bred 
By prentices they suffered wrong. 

When armed thus they gathered head.” 

Ill May Day. 

May eve had come, and little Dennet Headley was full of plans for 
going out early with her young playfellows to the meadows to gather 
May dew in the eafly morning, but her grandmother, who was in bed 
under a heavy attack ot rheumatism, dicl not like the reports brought 
to her, and deferred her consent to the expedition. 

In the afternoon there were tidings that the Lord IVIayor, Sir 
Thomas Rest, had been sent for to my lord cardinal, who just at 
this time, during the building at York House, was lodging in his 
house close to Temple Bar. Some hours later a message came to 
Master Alderman Headley to meet the lord mayor and the rest of 
the council at the Guildhall. He shook himself into his scarlet 
gown, and went off, puffing and blowing, and bidding Giles and 
Stephen take heed that the}’’ kept close, and ran into no mischief. 

But they agreed, and Kit Smallbones with them, that there could 
be no harm in going iulo the open space of Cheapside and playing 
out a match with bucklers between Giles and Wat Ball, a draper’s 
prentice who had challenged him. The bucklers were huge shields, 
and the weapons were wooden swords. It was an exciting sport, 
and brought out all the youths of Cheapside in the summer evening, 
bawling out encouragement, and laying wagers on either side. The 
curfew rang, but there were special privileges on May Eve, and the 
game went on louder than ever. 

There was far too much noise for any one to hear the town crier, 
who went along jingling his bell, and shouting, “O yes! O yes! O 
yes! By order of the lord mayor and council, no householder shall 
allow any one of his household to be abroad beyond his gates be- 


114 


THE AJlMOUllEirS PRENTICES. 


tween the hours of nine o’clock at niglitand seven in the morning,” 
or if anj' of the outermost heard it, as did Ambrose, who was on his 
way home to his night quarters, they were too much excited not to 
turn a deaf ear to it. 

Suddenly, however, just as Giles was preparing fpr a master- 
stroke, he was seized roughly by the shoulder and bidden to give 
over. He looked round. It was an alderman, not his master, but 
Sir Jolm Mundy, an unpopular, harsh man. 

” Wherefore?” demanded Giles. 

‘‘ Thou shalt know,” said the alderman, seizing his arm to drag 
him to the Counter prison, but Giles resisted. Wat Ball struck at 
Sir John’s arm with his wooden sword, and as the alderman shouted 
for the watch and citj guard, the lads on their side raised their cr5% 
‘‘ Prentices and clubs! Flat caps and clubs!” Master Headley, 
struggling along, met his colleague, with his gown torn into shreds 
from his back, among a host of wildly 3'elling lads, and panting, 
‘‘Help, help, brother Headley!” AVith great difficulty the two aider- 
men reached the door of the Dragon, whence Small bones sallied out 
to rescue them, and dragged them in. 

‘‘The boys! the boys!” was Master Headley’s first cry, but he 
might as well have tried to detach two particular waves from a surg. 
ing ocean as his own especial boys from the multitude on that wild 
evening. There was a moon, and the twilight still prevailed, but it 
Avas darK enough to make tlie confusion greater, as the cries swelled 
and numbers flowed into the open space of Cheapside. In the words 
of Hall the chronicler, ” Out came serving-men, and watermen, and 
courtiers, and by XI of the clock there were VI or VII hiuidreds in 
Cheap. And out of Pawle’s Churchj\ard came III hundred which 
wist not of the other.” For the most part all was involved in the 
semi-darkness of the summer night, but here and there liirht came 
from an upper window on some boyish face, perhaps full of mis- 
chief, perhaps somew'hat bewildered and appalled, liere and there 
were torches, which cast a red glare round them, but wffiose smoke 
blurred everything, and seemed to render the daikuess deeper. 

Perhaps it the tumult had only been of the apprentices, provoked 
by Alderman Mundy’s interference, they would soon have dispersed, 
but the throng was pervaded by men w ith much deeper design, and 
a cry arose — no one knew' from whence— that they would break into 
Newgate and set free Studley and Bates. 

By this time the torrent of young manhood was quite irresistible 
by any force that had yet been opposed to it. ’J'he mayor and sher- 
iffs stood ai the Guildhall, and read ttie royal proclamation by the 
light of a wax candle, held in the trembling hand of one of the 
clerks; but no one heard or heeded them and the uproar was in- 
creaseil as the rloors of New'gate fell, and all the felons rushed out to 
join the rioters. 

At the Sfinie time another shout rose, ” Down with the aliens!” 
and there was a general rush toward St. Marlin’s gate, m which di- 
rection many lived. There was, however, a pause here, tor Sir 
Thoniiis JMore, Recorder of London, stood in the way before St. 
Martin’s gate, and with his tull sweet voice began calling out and 
entreating the lads to go home, before any heads were broken, more 
than could be mended again. He was alwajs a favorite, and his 


THK AKMorREu’s PRENTICES. 


l]fi 

f?ood humor seemetl to he making some impression, when, eitlier 
from the determination of the more evil-disposed, or because 
the inhabitants of St. Martin’s Lane were Ireginuing to pour 
down hot water, stones, and brickbats on the dense mass ot 
heads below them, a fresh access of fury seized upon the mob. Yells 
of “ Down with the strangers!” echoed through the narrow street, 
drowning Sir Thomas’s voice. A lawyer who stood with him was 
knocked down and much hurt, the doors were battered down, and 
the household stuff thrown from the windows. Here, Ambrose, 
who had hitherto been pushed helplessly about, and knocked hither 
and thither, was driven up against Giles, and, to avoid falling and 
being trampled down, clutched hold of him breathless and panting. 

‘‘ Thou here!” exclaimed Giles. ” Who would have thought of 
sober Ambrose in the midst of the fray? See here, Stevie!” 

‘‘Poor old Ambrose!” cried Stephen, ‘‘keep close tons! We’ll 
see no harm comes to thee. ’Tis hot work, eh';'” 

‘‘ Oh, Stephen, 1 could but get out of .the throng to warn my 
master and Master Michael!” 

Those words seemed to strike Giles Headley. He might have cared 
little for the fate ot the old printer, but as he heard the screams of 
the women in the houses around, he exclaimed, ‘‘ Ay! there’s the old 
man and the little maidl We will have her to the Dragon!” 

‘‘ Or to mine aunt’s,” said Ambrose. 

‘‘Have with thee then,” said Giles. ‘‘Take his other arm, 
Steve;” and locking their arms together the three fought and forced 
their way from among the plunderers in St. JMartin’s with no worse 
mishap than a shower of hot water, which did not hurt them much 
through their stout woolen coats. They came at last to a place 
where they could breathe, and stood still a moment to recover from 
the struggle, and vituperate the hot water. 

Then they heard fresh howls and yells in front as well as behind. 

‘‘ They are at it everywhere,” e.xclaimed Stephen. ‘‘ i near them 
somewhere out by Cornhill.” 

‘‘ Aj', where the" Frenchmen live that calender worsted,” returned 
Giles. ‘‘ Come on, who knows how it is with the old man and lit- 
tle maid?” 

‘‘ There’s a sort in our court that are ready for aught,” said Am- 
brose. 

On they hurried in the darkness, which was now at the very deep- 
est of the night; now and then a torch was borne across the street, 
and most of the houses had lights in the upper windows, for few 
Londoners slept on that strange night. The stained glass of the 
windows of the churches beamed in bright colors from the altar 
lights seen through them, but the lads made slower progress than 
they wished, for the streets were never easy to walk in the dark, and 
twice they came on mobs assailing houses, from the window.s of one 
of which, French shoes and boots were being hailed down. Things 
were moderately quiet around St. Paurs,'but as they came into 
Warwick Lane they heard fresh shouts and wild cries, and at the 
archway leading to the inner yard they could see that there was a 
huge bonfire in the midst ot the court— of what composed they could 
not see, for the howling figures that exalted round it. 

‘‘ George Bates, the villain!” cried Stephen, as his enemy in ex- 


116 


THE armourer’s PRENTICES. 

lilting ferocious delight ■was revealed for a moment throvring a book 
on the fire, and shouting, “Hurrah! there’s tor the old sorcerer; 
there's for the heretics!” 

That instant Giles w'as flying on Bates, and Stephen, with equal, 
it not greater fury, at one of his comrades; but Ambrose dashed 
through the outskirts of the wildly screaming and shouting fellows, 
many of ■wdiom were the miscreant population of the mews, to the 
black yawning doorway of his master. He saw only a fellow stagger- 
ing out with the screw of a press to teed the flame, and hurried on 
in the din to call “ Master, art thou there?” 

There was no answ'er, and he moved on to the next door, calling 
again softly, w^hile all the spoilers seemed absorbed in the fire and 
the combat. “ Master Michael! ’Tis 1, Ambrose!” 

“ Here, my son,” cautiously answered a voice he knew for Lucas 
Hansen’s. 

“Oh, master! master!” was his low, heartstricken cry, as by the 
leaping light of a flame he saw the pale face of the old printer, who 
drew him in. 

“Yea! ’tis ruin, ni)’’ son,” said Lucas. “And •wmiald that that 
were the worst.” 

The light flashed and flickered through the broken window so that 
Ambrose saw that the hangings had been torn down and everything 
wrecked^ and a low’^ sound as of stifled w'eeping directed his eyes to 
a corner where Aldonza sat with her fatlier’s head on her lap. 
“Lives he? Is he greatly hurt?” asked Ambrose, awestricken. 

“The life is yet in him, but 1 fear me greatly it is passing fast,” 
said Lucas, in a low voice. “ One of those lads smote him on the 
back with a club, and struck him do'vn at the poor maid’s feet, nor 
hath he moved since. It was that one young Headley is fighting 
with,” he added. 

“Bates! ah! Would that we had come sooner! What! more of 
this work — ” 

For just then a tremendous outcry broke forth, and there was a 
rush and panic among those who had been leaping round the fire 
just before. “The guard! the king’s men!” was the sound- they 
presently distinguished. They could hear rough abusive voices, 
shrieks and trampling of feet. A few seconds more and all was still, 
only the fire remained, and in the stillness the suppressed sobs and 
moans of Aldonza were heard. 

“ A light! Fetch a light from the fire,” said Lucas. 

Ambrose ran out. The flame w'as lessening, but he could see the 
dark bindings, and blackened pages of the books he loved so well. 
A corner of a page of St. Augustine's Confessions was turned toward 
him and lay on a singed iragmentof Aldoneas’ embroidered curtain, 
while a little red flame was licking the spiral folds of the screw, try- 
ing, as it were, to gather energy to do more than blacken it. Am- 
brose could have wept over it at any other moment, but now he 
could only catch up a brand — it was the leg of his master’s carved 
chair— and run back with it. Lucas ventured to light a lamp, and 
they could then see the old man s face pale, but calm and still, with 
his long -white beaid flowing over his breast. There was no blood, 
no look of pain, only a set look about the eyes; and Aldonza cried| 


THE armourer’s RllENTICES. 117 

“ Oh, father, thou art better! Speak to me! Let Master Lucas lift 
thee up!” 

“ Nay, my child. 1 cannot move hand nor toot. Let me lie thus 
till the Angel of Death come tor me. He is very near.” He spoke 
in short sentences. ” Water — nay — no pain,” he added then, and 
Ambrose ran for some vrater in the first battered fragment of a tin 
pot he could find. They bathed his face and fie gathered strength 
after a time to say ‘‘ A priest!— oh for a priest to shrive and housel 
me.” 

“ 1 will find one,” said Ambrose, speeding out into the court over 
fragments of the beautiful work for which Abenali was hated, and 
over the torn, half-burned leaves of the beloved store of Lucas. The 
fire had died down, but morning twilight was beginning to dawn, 
and all was perfectly still after the recent tumult, though for a mo- 
ment or two Ambrose heard some distant cries. 

Where should he go? Priests indeed were plentiful, but both his 
friends were in bad odor with the ordinary ones. Lucas had avoided 
both the Lenten shrift and Easter Communion, and what Miguel 
might have done, Ambrose was uncertain. Some young priests had 
actually been among the foremost in sacking the dwellings of the 
unfortunate foreigners, and Ambrose was quite uncertain whether 
he might not tall on one of that stamp — or on one Avho might vex 
the old man’s soul — ])erhaps deny him the sacraments altogether. 
As he saw the pale lighted windows of St. Paul’s, it struck him to 
see whether any one were within. The light might lie only from some 
of the tapers burning perpetually, but the pale light in the northeast, 
the morning chill, and the clock striking three, reminded him that it 
must be the hour of Prime, and he said to himself, ‘‘ Sure, if a priest 
be worshiping at this hour, he will be a good and merciful man. 1 
can but try.” 

The door of the transept yielded to his hand. He came forward, 
lighted through the darkness by the gleam of the candles, which cast 
a huge and awful shadow from the crucifix of the rood screen upon 
the pavement. Before it knelt a black figure in prayer. Ambrose 
advanced in some awe and doubt how to break in on these devo- 
tions, but the priest had heard his step, rose and said, ” What is it, 
my son? Dost thou seek sanctuary after these sad doings?” 

” Nay, reverend sir,” said Ambrose. ‘‘ ’Tis a priest for a dying 
man 1 seek;” and in reply to the instant question where it was, he 
explained in haste who the sufferer was, and how he had received a 
fatal blow, and was begging for the sacraments. ‘‘And oh, sir!” 
he added, ” fie is a holy and God-fearing man, if ever one lived, and 
hath been cruelly and foully entreated by jealous and wicked folk, 
who hated him for his skill and industry!” 

” Alack for the unhappy lads; and alack for those who egged 
them on,” said the priest. ‘‘ Truly they knew not what they did. I 
will come with thee, my good youth. Thou fiast not been one of 
them?” 

‘‘ No, truly, sir, save that I was carried along and could not break 
from the throng. 1 work tor Lucas Hansen, the Dutch printer, 
whom they have likewise plundered in their savage rage.” 

‘‘ ’Tis well. Thou canst then bear this,” said the priest, taking 
a thick wax candle. Then reverently advancing to the altar, whence 


118 


THE armourer’s PRENTICES. 


he took the pyx, or gold case in which the Host was reserved, he 
lighted the candle, which he gave, together with his stole, to the 
youth to hear before him. 

Then, when the light fell full on his features, Ambiose, with a 
strange thrill of joy and trust perceived that it was no other than 
Dean Colet, who had here been praying against the fury of the peo- 
ple. He was very thankful, feeling intuitively that there was no fear 
but that Abenali would be understood, and for his own part, the 
very contact with the* man whom he revered, seemed to calm and 
soothe him, though on that solemn errand no word could be spoken. 
Ambrose went on slowly before, his dark head rrncovered, the 
priestly stole hanging over his arm, his hands holding aloft the tall 
caudle of virgin wax, while the dean followed closely with feeble 
steps, looking frail and worn, but wrth a grave, sweet solemnity on 
his face. It was a perfectly still morning, and as they slowly paced 
along the flame burned steadily with little flickering, while the pure 
delicately- colored sky overhead was becoming every moment lighter, 
and only the larger stars were visible. The houses were absolutely 
still, and the only person they met, a lad creeping homeward after 
the fray, fell on his knees bareheaded as he perceived their errand. 
Once or twice again sounds came up from the city beneath, like 
shiieks or wailing breaking strangely on that fair peaceful ]\lay 
morn; but still that pair went on till Ambrose had guided the dean 
to the yard, where, except that the daylight was revealing more and 
more of the wreck around, all was as he had left it. Aldonza, poor 
child, with her black hair hanging loose like a veil, for she had been 
startled from her bed, still sat on the ground making her lap a pil- 
low for the white- bearded head, nobler and more venerable than 
ever. On it lay, in the absolute immobility produced by the para- 
lyzing blow, the fine features already in the solemn grandeur of 
death, and only the movement of the lips under the white flowing 
beard and of the dark eyes showing life. 

Dean Colet said afterward that he felt as if he had been called to 
the death-bed of Israel, or of Barzillai the Gileadite, especially when 
the old man, in the Oriental phraseology he had never entirely lost, 
said, “ I thank Thee, ni}’- God, and*"the God of mj’- fathers, that 
Thou htist granted me that which I had prayed for.” 

The Dutch printer was already slightlj’’ known to the dean, hav- 
ing sold him many books. A few words were exchanged with him, 
but it was plain that the dying man could not be moved, and that 
his confession must be made on the lap of the jmung girl. Colet 
knelt over him so as to be able to hear, while Lucas and Ambrose 
withdrew, but were soon called back for the remainder of the service 
for the dying. The old man’s face showed perfect peace. All 
worldly thought and care seemed to have been crushed out of him 
by the blow, and he did not even appear to think of the unprotected 
state of his daughter, although he blessed her with solemn fervor 
immediately after receiving the Viaticum — then lay murmuring to 
himself sentences which Ambrose, who had learned mueh from him, 
knew to be from his Arabic breviary, about palm -branches, and the 
twelve manner of fruits of the Tree of Life. 

It was a strange scene— the grand, calm, patiiarchal old man, so 
peaceful on his dark-haired daughter’s lap in the midst of the shat- 


THE armourer’s I’KENTICKS. I 1 'J 

tered borne in the old feudal stable. All were silent a while in aw'e, 
but the dean was the first to move and speak, calling Lucas forward 
to ask sundry questions of him. 

“ Is there no good woman,” he asked, ” who could be with this 
poor child and take her home, when her father shall have passed 
away?” 

‘‘ Mine uncle’s wife, sir,” said Ambrose, a little doubtfully. ‘‘ 1 
trow she would come— since i can certify her that your reverence 
holds him for an holy man. ” 

‘‘ 1 had thy word tor it,” said tire dean. ” Ah! reply not, my son, 
1 see well how it may be, with you here. 13ut tell those who will 
take the word of John Colet that never did 1 mark (he passing away 
of one who had borne more for the true holy Catholic faith, nor held 
it more to his soul’s comfort.” 

For the dean, a man of vivid intelligence, knew enough of the 
Moresco persecutions to be able to gather from the words of Lucas 
and Ambrose, and the confession ot the old man himselt, a far more 
correct estimate ot Abenali’s suflerings, and constancy to the truth 
than any of the more homebred w its could have divined. ' lie knew, 
too, that his own orthodoxy was so called in question by the nar- 
rower and more unspiritual section of the clergy that only the appre- 
ciative friendship ot the king and the cardinal kept him securely in 
his position. 

Ambrose sped away, knowing that Perronel would be quite satis- 
fied. He was sure of her read^' compassion and good-will, but she 
had so often bew'ailed his running after learning and possibly heretic- 
al doctrine, that he had doubted wdielher she W'ould readily respond 
to a summons, on his own authority alone, to one looked on w ith so 
much suspicion as ^Master Michael. Colet intimated his intention of 
remaining a little longer to pray with the dying man, and further 
wrote a tew words on his tablets, telling Ambrose to leave them with 
one of the porters at his house as he went past St. Paul’s. 

It was broad daylight now', a lovely Ma\' morning, such as gen- 
erally called forth the maidens, small and great, to the meadows to 
rub their tresh cheeks in the silvery dew, and to bring home king- 
cups, cuckoo fiow'ers, blue bottles, and cow^slips tor the jMaypoles 
that w’ere to be decked. But all was silent now, not a house was 
open, the rising sun made the eastern w’indows of the churches a 
blaze of light, and from the west dooi of St. Paul’s the city beneath 
seemed sleeping, only a wreath or two ot smoke rising. Ambrose 
found the porter looking out for his master in much perturbation. 

I le groaned as he looked at the tablets and heard where the dean 
Avas, and said that came ot being a saint on earth. It would be the 
death ot him ere long! What would old 3Iistres3 Colet, his mother, 
say? He would have detained the’ youth wdth his inquiries, but 
Ambrose said he had to speed down to the Temple on an errand from 
the dean, and hurried away. All Ludgate Hill was now quiet, every 
hou& closed, but here and there la}^ torn shreds of garments, or 
household vessels. 

As lie reached Fleet Street, however, there was a sound of horses’ 
feet, and a body of men-at-arms with helmets glancing in the sun 
were seen. There was a cry, “There’s one! That’s one of the 
lewd younglings! At him!” 


120 


THE AKMOUUER S PRENTICES. 


■ Aud Ambrose to his horror and surprise saw two horsemen begin 
to gallop toward him as it to ride him down. Happily he was close 
to a narrow archway leading to an allej^ down which no war-horse 
could possibly make its way, and dashing into it aud round a cor- 
ner, he eluded his pursuers, and reached the bank of the river, 
whence, being by this' time ex])erienced in the by-ways ot London, 
he could easily reach Perronel’s house. 

She was standing at her door looking out anxiously, and as she 
saw him she threw up her hands in thanksgiving to our Lady that 
here he was at last, and then turned to scold him. “ O lad, lad, 
what a night, thou hast given me! 1 trusted at least that thou hadst 
wit to keep out of a fray and to let the poor aliens alone, thou that 
art always running alter yonder old Spaniard. Hey! what now? Did 
they fall on him? Fie! Shame on them — a harmless old man like 
that.” 

“ Yea, good aunt, and what is more, they have slain him, I tear 
me, outright.” 

Amidst, many a ” good lack ” and exclamation of pity and indig- 
nation from Perronel, Ambrose tola his tale of that strange night, 
and entreated her to come with him to do what was possible for 
Abenali and his daughter. She hesitated a little, her kind heart was 
touched, but she hardly liked to leave her house, in case her hus- 
band should come in, as he generally contrived to do in the early 
morning, now that the cardinal’s household was lodged so near her. 
Sheltered as she was by the buildings of the Temple, she had heard 
little or nothing of the noise of the riot, though she had been 
alarmed at her nephew’s absence, and an officious neighbor had run 
in to tell her first that the prentice lads were up and sacking the 
houses of the strangers, and next that the Tower was firing on them 
and the Lord IMayor’s Guard and the gentlemen ot the Inns of Court 
were up in arms to put them down. She said several times, “ Poor 
soul,” and ” Yea, it were ashame to leaveherto the old Dutchkin,” 
but with true Flemish deliberation she continued her household ar- 
rangements, and insisted that the bowl ot broth, which she set on 
the table, should be partaken of by herself and Ambrose before she 
would stir a step. ” Not eat! Now out on thee, lad! what good 
dost thou think thou or 1 can do if we come in faint and famished, 
where there’s neither bite nor sup to be had? As for me, not a foot 
will 1 budge, till I have seen thee empty that bowl. So to it, my 
lad! Thou hast been afoot all night, and lookst so grimed and ill- 
favored a varlet that no man would think thou earnest from an 
honest wife’s house. Wash thee at the pail! Get thee into thy 
chamber and put on clean garments, or I’ll not walk the street with 
thee! ’Tis not sate — thou wilt be put in w'ard for one of the rioters.” 

Everybody who entered that little house obeyed IMistress Randall, 
and Ambrose submitted, knowing it vain to resist, and remembering 
the pursuit he had recently escaped; yet the very refreshment of food 
and cleanliness revealed to him how stiff and weary were his 
limbs, though he was in no mood for rest. His uncle appeared at 
the door just as he had hoped Perronel was ready. 

‘‘ Ah! there’s one of you ■w'hole and sate!” he exclaimed. 
” Where is the other?” 

‘‘Stephen!” exclaimed Ambrose;”! saw him la.st in Warwick 


THE ARHOURER’s PREXTTOES. 121 

Inner Yard.’' And in a few words he explained. Hal Randall shook 
his head. “ May all be well,” he exclaimed, and then he told ho is’ 
Sir Thomas Parr had come at midnight and roused the cardinal’s 
household with tidings that all the rabble of London were up, plun- 
dering and murdering all who came in their way, and that he had 
then ridden on to Richmond to the king with the news. The car- 
dinal had put his house into a state of defense, not knowing against 
whom the riot might be directed— and the jester had not been awak- 
ened till too late to get out to send after his wife, besides which, by 
that time intelligence had come in that the attack was directed en- 
tirely on the French ahd Spanish merchants and artificers in distant 
parts of the city and suburbs, and was only conducted by lads with 
no better weapons than sticks, so that the Temple and its precincts 
W’ere in no danger at all. 

The mob had dispersed of its own accord by about three or four 
o’clock, but by that hour the mayor had got together a force, the 
gentlemen of the Inns of Court and the Veomen of the Tower were 
up in arms, and the Earl of Shrewsbury had come in wilh a troop 
of horse. They had met the rioters, and had driven them in herds 
like sheep to the different prisons, after which Lord Shrew'sbury had 
come to report to the cardinal that all was quiet, and the jester’ hav- 
ing gathered as much intelligence as he could, had contrived to slip 
into the garments that concealed his motley, and reach home, lie 
gave ready consent to Perronel’s going to the aid of the sufferers in 
Warwick Inner Yard, especially at the summons of the Dean of St. 
Paul’s, and even to her bringing home the little wench. Indeed, 
he would escort her thither himself, for he was very anxious about 
Stephen, and Ambrose was so dismayed by the account he gave as to 
reproach himself extremely for having parted company with his 
brother, and never having so much as thought of him as in peril, 
while absorbed in care tor Abenali. So the three set out together, 
when no doubt the sober, solid appearance which Randall’s double 
suit of apparel and black gown gave him, together with his wife’s 
matronly and respectable look, were no small protection to Am- 
brose, for men-at-arms were prowling about the streets looking 
hungry to pick up straggling victims, and one actually stopped 
Randall to interrogate him as to who the youth was, and what «'as 
his errand. 

Before St. Paul’s they parted, the husband and wife going toward 
Warwick Inner Yard, whither An)brose, fleeter of foot, would fol- 
low, so soon as he had ascertained at the Dragon Court whether 
Stephen were at home. 

Alas! at the gate he was hailed with the inquiry whether he had 
seen his brother or Giles. The whole yard w^as disorganized, no 
work going on. The lads had not been seen all nighc, and the mas- 
ter himself had in the midst of his displeasure and anxiety been 
summoned to the Guildhall. The last that was known was Giles’s 
rescue, and the assault on Alderman Mundy. Small bones and 
Steelman had both gone in different directions to search for the two 
apprentices, and Dennet, who had flowm down unheeded and un- 
checked at the first hope of news, pulled Ambrose by the sleeve, and 
exclaimed, ‘‘Oh! Ambrose, Ambrose, they can never hurt them! 
They can never do any harm to our lads, can they?” 


m 


THE AHMOUKER’s PRENTICES. 

Ambrose hoped lor the same security, but in his dismay, could 
only hurry after his uncle and aunt. 

He found the loimer at the door of the old stable — whence issued 
wild screams and cries. Several priests and attendants were there 
now, and the kind dean with Lucas Avas trying to induce Aldonza 
to relax the grasp with which she embraced the body, whence a few 
moments before the brave and constant spirit had departed. Her 
black hair hanging over her like a v^eil, she held the inanimate head to 
her bosom, sobbing and shrieking Avith the violence of her Eastern 
nature. The priests who had been sent for to take care of the corjrse, 
and bear it to the mortuary of the minster, wanted to remove her by 
force; but the dean insisted on one more gentle experiment, and 
beckoned to the kindly woman, whom he saw advancing with e}"es 
full of tears. Perronel knelt down by her, persevered when the poor 
girl stretched out her hand to beat her off, crying, “ Off! go! Leave 
me my father! O father, father, joy of my life! my one only hope 
and stay, leave me not! Walie! Ava’ke, speak to thy child, O my fa- 
ther!” 

Though the child had never seen or heard of Eastern wailings 
over the dead, yet hereditary nature prompted her to the lamentations 
that scandalized the priests and even Lucas, A\'ho broke in with 
” Fie, maid, thou mournest as one who hath no hope.” But Dr. 
Colet still signed to them to have patience, and Perronel somehow 
contrived to draw the girl’s head on her breast and give her a moth- 
erly kiss, such as the poor child had never felt since she, when al- 
most a babe, had been lilted from her dying mother’s side in the dark 
stifling hold of the vessel in the Bay of Biscay. And in sheer sur- 
prise and sense of being soothed she ceased her cries, listened to, the 
tender AA hisi)ers and persuasions about holy men who would care tor 
her father, and his Avishes that she should lie a good maid — till at last 
she yielded, let her hands be loosed, allowed Perronel to lift the 
venerable head from her knees, and close the eyes — then to gather 
her in her arms, and lead her to the door, taking her, under Am- 
brose’s guidance, into Lucas’s abode, A\hich was as utterly and 
mournfully dismantled as their own, but Avhere Perronel, accustomed 
in her AV’audeiing days to all sorts of contrivances, managed to bind 
up the streaming hair, and, by the help of her own cloak, to bring 
the poor girl iiito a state in which she could be led through the 
streets. 

The dean meantime had bidden Lucas to take shelter at his own 
house, and the old Dutchman had given a sort of doubtful accept- 
ance. 

Ambrose, meanAvhile, half distracted about his brother, craved 
counsel of the jester where to seek nim. 

CHAPTER XVll. 

ILL MAY DAY. 

“ With two and two tog;ether tied. 

Through Temple Bar and Strand they go 
To Westminster, there to be tried, 

AVith ropes about their necks also."— Ill May Day. 

And where |.was Stephen? Crouching, wretched with huntrer, 
cold, weariness, blows, and what Avas tar worse, sense of humiliation 


123 


TJIK akmoukp:h’s prentices. 

and disgrace, and terror for the future, in a corner of the yard of 
hfewgate— whither the whole set of lads, surprised in Warwick Inner 
Court by the law-students of the Inns of Court, had been driven like 
so many cattle, at the sword’s point, with no attention or perception 
that he and Giles had been struggling agaimt the spoilers. 

Yet tins fact made them all the more forlorn. The others, some 
forty in number, their companions in misfortune, included most of 
the Barbican prentices, who were of the Eagle faction, special enemies 
alike to Abenali and to the Dragon, and these held aloof from 
Headley and Birkenholt, nay, reviled them for the attack which 
they declared had caused the general capture. 

The two lads of the Dragon had, in no measured terms, de- 
nounced the cruelty to the poor old inoffensive man, and were de- 
nounced in their turn as friends of the sorcerer. But all were too 
much exhausted by the night’s work to have spirit for more than a 
snarling encounter of worcls, and tha only effect was that Giles and 
Stephen were left isolated in their misery outside the shelter of the 
handsome arched gateway under which the others congregated. 

Newgate had been rebuilt by Whittington out of pity to poor 
prisoners and captives. It must have been unspeakably dieadful 
before, for the foulness of the narrow paved court, shut in by strong 
walls, was something terrible. Tired, spent, and aching all over, 
and with boyish callousness to dirt, still Giles and Stephen hesitated 
to sit down, and wdien at last they could stand no longer, they rested, 
leaning against one another. Stephen trietl to keep up hope by de- 
claring that his master would soon get them released, and Giles al 
ternated between despair, and declarations that he would have justice 
on those who so treated his father’s son. They dropped asleep— first 
one and then the other — from sheer exhaustion, waking from time 
to time to realize that it was no dream, and to feel all the colder and 
more cramped. 

By and by there were voices at the gate. Friends were there ask- 
ing after their own Will, or John, or Thomas, as the case might be. 
The jailer opened a little wicket-window in the heavy door, and, no 
doubt for a consideration, passed in food to certain lads whom he 
called out, but it did not always reach its destination. It was often 
torn away as by hungry wolves. For though the felons had been 
let out, w'hen the doors were opened, the new prisoners w'ere not by 
any means all apprentices. 'There were watermen, husbandmen, 
beggars, thieves, among them, attracted by the scent of plunder; and 
even some of the elder lads had no scruple in snatching the morsel 
from the younger ones. 

Poor little Jasper Hope, a mischievous little curly-headed idle fel- 
low, only thirteen, ju.st apprenticed to his brother the draper, and 
rushing about with the other youths in the pride of his flat cap, was 
one of lire sufferers. A servant had been at the door, promising that 
his brother would speedily have him released, and handing in bread 
and meat, of which he was instantly robbed by George Bates and 
three or four more big fellows, and sent away reeling and .sobbing, 
under a heavy blow, with all the mischief and play knocked out of 
him. Stephen and Giles called “ Shame!” but were unheeded, and 
they could only draw the little fellow up to them, and assure him 
that his brother would soon come for him. 


1:^4 THE AK310URER’S prentices. 

The next call at the gate was Headley and Birkenholt — “Master 
Headley’s prentices — Be they here?’’ 

And at their answer, not only the window, but the door in the 
gate was opened, and stooping low to enter. Kit Smallbones came in, 
and not empty-handed. 

“ Ay, ay, youngi^ters,’’ said he, “ 1 knew how it would be, by wuat 
I saw elsewhere, so I came with a lee to open locks. How came ye 
to get into such plight as this? And poor little Hope too! A fine 
pass when they put babes in jail!’’ 

“I’m prenticed!’’ said Jasper, though in a very weak little voice. 

“ Have you had bite or sup!” asked Kit. 

And on their replj'. telling how those who had had supplies from 
home had been treated, Smallbones observed. “ Let them try it,’’ 
and stood, at all his breadth, guarding the two youths and little 
Jasper, as they ate, Stephen at first with difficulty, in the taintness 
and foulness of the place, but then ravenously. Smallbones lectured 
them on their lolly all the time, and made them give an account of 
the night. He said their master was at the Guildhall taking counsel 
with tlie lord mayor, and there were report s that it would go hard 
with the rioters, lor murder and plunder had been done in many 
places, and he especially looked at Giles with pity, and asked how 
he came to embroil himself with Master IMundy? Still his good- 
natured face cheered them, and he promised lurther supplies. He 
also relieved Stephen’s mind about his bi other, telling of his inquiry 
at the Dragon in the morning. 

All that day the condition of such of the prisoners as bad w'ell-to- 
do friends was improving. Fathers, brothers, masters, and servants, 
came in quest of them, bringing food and bedding, and by exorbitant 
fees to the jailers obtained lor them shelter in the gloomy ceils. 
Mothers could not come, for a proclamation had gone out that none 
were to babble, and men were to keep their wives at home. And 
though there were more material comforts, prospects were very 
gloomy. Ambrose came when Kit Smallbones returned with what 
Mrs. Headley had sent the captives. He looked sad and dazed, and 
clung to his brother, but said very little, except that they ouglit to 
be locked up together, and he really would have been left in New- 
gate, if Kit had not laid a great hand on his shoulder and almost 
forced him away. 

Master Headley himselt arrived with Master Hope in the afternoon. 
Jasper sprung to his brother, crying, “ Simon! Simon! you are come 
to take me out of this dismal, evil place!” But Master Hope — a 
tall, handsome, grave young man, who had often been much dis- 
turbed by his little brother’s pranks— could only shake his head with 
tears in his eyes, and, sitting down on the roll of bedding, take him 
on his kpee and try to console him with the hope of liberty in a few 
days. ^ 

He had tried to obtain the boy’s release on the plea of his extreme 
youth, but the authorities were hotly exasperated, and would hear 
of no mercy. The whole of the rioters were to be tried three days 
hence, and there was no doubt that some would be made an example 
of; the only question was, how many? 

Master Headley closely interrogated his own two lads, and was evi- 
dently sorely anxious about his namesake, who, he feared, might be 


TJiE ahmoukek’s pkentices 1:^5 

recognized by Alderman Mundy and brought forward as a ring- 
leader of the disturbance; nor did he feel at all secure that the plea 
that he had no enmity to the foreigners, but had actually tried to 
defend Lucas and Abenali, would be attended to for a moment 
though Lucas Hansen had promised to bear witness of it. Giles 
looked perfectly stunned at the time, unable to take in the idea, but 
at night Stephen was wakened on the pallet that they shared with 
little Jasper, by hearing him weeping and sobbing for his mother at 
Salisbury. 

Time lagged on till the 4th of May. Some of the poor boys whiled 
away their time with dreary games in the yard, sometimes wrest- 
ling, but more often gambling with the dice, one or two happened 
to possess, for the dinners that were provided for the wealthier, 
sometimes even betting on what the sentences would be, and who 
w'ould be hanged, or w’ho escape. 

Poor lads, they did not, for the most part, realize their real danger, 
but Stephen was more and more beset with home-sick longing for 
the glades and thickets of his native forest, and would keep little 
Jasper and even Giles for an hour together telling of the woodland 
adventures of those happy times, shutting his eyes to the grim stone 
walls, and trying to think himself among the beeches, hollies, 
cherries, and hawthorns, shining in the May sun! Giles and he were 
close friends now, and with little Jasper, said their Paters and Aves 
together, that they might be delivered from their trouble. At last, 
on the 4th, the whole of the prisoners were summoned roughly into 
the court, where harsh-looking men-at-arms proceeded to bind them 
together in pairs to be marched through the streets to Westminster. 
Giles and Stephen would naturally have been put togethet, but poor 
little Jasper cried out so lamentably when he was about to be bound 
to a stranger that Stephen stepped forw’ard in his stead, begging that 
the boy might go with Giles. The soldier made a contemptuous 
sound, bi'it consented, and Stephen found that his companion In 
misfortune, whose left elbow was tied to his right, was George 
Bates. 

The two lads looked at each other in a strange, rueful manner, 
and Stephen said, “ Shake hands, comrade. If we are to die, let us 
bear no ill will.” 

George gave a cold, limp, trembling hand. He looked wretched, 
subdued, tearful, and nearly starved, for he had- no kinsfolk at hand, 
and his master was too angry with him, and too much afraid of 
compromising himself, to have sent him any supplies. Stephen tried 
to unbutton his own pouch, but not succeeding with his left hand, 
bade George try with his right. ” There’s a cake of bread there,” 
he said. ‘‘ Eat that and thou’lt be able better to stand up like a 
man, come what will.” 

George devoured It eagerly. “Ah!” he said, in a strange voice, 
“ Stephen Birkenholt, thou art iin honest fellow. 1 did Ihee wrong. 
If ever we get out of this plight — ” 

Here they were ordered to march, and in a long and doleful pro- 
cession they set forth. The .streets were lined with men at-arms, for 
all the affections and sympathies of the people w^ere with the unfort- 
unate boys, and a rescue was apprehended. 

In point of fact, the lord mayor and aldermen were afraid of the 


126 


THE armourer’s I’RENTICES, 


king’s supposing them to have organized the assault on their rivals, 
and each was, therefore, desirous to show seventy to any one’s ap- 
prentices save his own; while the nobility were afraid of contumacy 
on tire part of the citizens, and were resolved to ciush down every 
rioter among them, so that they had tilled the city wdth their armed 
retainers. Fathers and mothers, masters and dames, sisters and fel- 
low^ prentices, found their doors closely guarded and could only look 
with tearful, anxious eyes, at the proecBssions of poor youths, many 
of them mere children, who were driven from each of the jails to the 
Guildhall. There, when all collected, the entire number amounted 
to two hundred and seventy-eight, though a certain proportion of these 
were grown men, priests, wherrymen and beggars, who had joined 
the rabble in search of plunder. 

It did not look well for them that the Duke of Norfolk and his 
sou, the Earl of Surrey, were joined in the commission with the lord 
mayor. Tlie upper end of the great hall was filled with aldermen in 
their robes and chains, with the sheriffs of London and the wdiole 
imposing array, and the lord mayor with the duke sat enthroned 
above them in truly awful dignity. The duke was a hard and piti- 
less man, and bore the city a bitter grudge for the death of his re- 
tainer, the priest killed in Cheapside, and in spite of all his poetical 
fame, it may be feared that the Earl of Surrey was not of much 
riioie merciful mood, while their men-at-arms spoke savagely of 
hanging, slaughtering or setting the city on fire. 

The arrangement was very long, as tliere was so large a number 
of names to be read, and to the horror of all, it was not tor a mere 
riot, but for high treason. The king, it was declared, being in amity 
with all Cflrislian princes, it was high treason to break the truce and 
league by attacking their subjects, resident in England. The terri- 
ble ininishment of the traitor would thus be the doom of all con- 
cerned, and in the temper of the Howards and their retainers, there 
was little hope of mercy, nor, in times like those, was there even 
much prospect that, out of such large numbers, some might escape. 

A few were more especially cited, fourteen in number, among them 
George Bates, Walter Ball, and Giles Headley, who had certainly 
given cause for the beginning of the affray. There was no attempt 
to defend George Bates, wiro seemed to be stunned and bewildered 
beyond the power of speaking or even of understanding, but as Giles 
cast his eyes round in wild, terrified appeal. Master Headley rose up 
in liis alderman’s gown, and prayed leave to be heard in his defense, 
as he h.ad witnesses to bring in his favor. 

“ Is he thy sou, good Armorer Headley!” demanded the Duke of 
Norfolk, who held the work of the Dragon Court in high esteem. 

” Nay, my lord duke, but he is in the place of one, my near kins- 
man and godson, and so soon as his time be up, bound to wed my 
only child! I pray you to hoar his cause, ere cutting oft the heir of 
an old and honorable house.” 

Norfolk and his sons murmured something about the Headley 
skill in armor, and the lord nuiyor w'as willing enough for mercy, 
but Sir Jolm Mundy here rose: ” My lord duke, this is the very 
j’ouug man who was first to lay hands on me! Yea, my lords and 
sirs, ye have already heard how' their rude sport, contrary to procla- 
mation, was the cause of the tumult. When 1 w'ould have bidden 


THE AKMOUHKK^S PRENTICES. 127 

tliem go home, the one bnnvler asks me insolently, ‘ Where fore V’ 
the other smote me with his sword, whereupon the whole rascaillc 
set on me, and as IVIaster Alderman Headley can testify, 1 scarce 
reached his house alive. 1 ask, should favor overcome justice, and a 
ringleader, who hath assaulted the person ot an aldeinian, find favor 
above others!” 

” 1 ask not for favor,” returned Headley, ‘‘ only that witnesses be 
heard on his behalf, ere he be condemned.” 

Headley, as a favorite with the duke, prevailed to have permission 
to call his witnesses: Christopher Smallbones, who had actually 
rescued Alderman Mundy from the mob, and helped him into the 
Dragon Court, could testify that the proclamation had been entirely 
unheard in the din of the youths looking on at the game. And this 
W'as followed up by Lucas Hansen declaring that so far from having 
attacked or plundered him and the others in VVarwick Inner Tard, 
the two, Giles Headley and Stephen Birkenholt, had come to their 
defense, and fallen on those who were burning their goods. 

On this a discussion followed between the authorities seated at 
the upper end of the hall. The poor an.xious watchers below could 
only gues^by tike gestures what was being agitated as to their fate, 
and Stephen was feeling it sorely hard that Giles should be pleaded 
for as the master’s kinsman, and he left to so cruel a fate, no one 
saying a word for him but unheeded IjUChs. Finally, without giv- 
ing of judgment, the whole of the niLserable prisoners, who had been 
standing without food for hours, were marched back, still tied, to 
their several prisons, while their guards pointed out the gibbets 
where they were to suffer the next day. 

Master Headley wasuotqpite so regardless of his younger appren- 
tice as Stephen imagined. Tiiere was a sort of little council held 
in his hall when he returned — sad, dispirited, almost hopeless— to find 
Hal Randall anxiously awaiting him. The alderman said he durst 
not plead for Stephen, lest he should lose both by asking too much, 
and his young kinsman had the first right, besides being in the most 
peril as having been singled out by name; whereas Stephen might 
escape with the multitude if there were any m^rcy. He added that 
the Duke of Wortolk was certainly inclined to save one who knew 
the secret of Spanish sword blades; but that he was fiercely resolved 
to be revenged for the murder of his lewd priest in Cheapside, and 
that Sir John ]\lundy was equally determined that Giles should not 
escape. 

‘‘ What am 1 to say to his mother? Have I brought him from her 
to this?” mourned Master Headley. ‘‘ Ay, and JMaster Randall, 
I grieve as for thy nephew, who to my mind hath done naught amiss. 
A brave lad! A good lad, who hath saved mine own life. Would 
that 1 could do aught for him! It is a shame!” . 

‘‘ Father,” said Dennet, who had crept to the back of his chair, 
” the king would save him! Mind you the golden whistle that the 
grandame keepelh?” 

‘‘ The maid hath hit it!” exclaimed Randall. “ Master Alderman! 
Let me but have the little wench and the whistle to-morrow morn, 
and it is done. How sayest thou, pretty mistress? Wilt thou go 
with me and ask thy cousin’s tile, and poor Stephen’s, of the king?” 

” With all my heart, sir,” said Dennet, coming to him with out- 


128 THE armourer’s PRENTICES. 

Stretched hands. “ Oh! sir, canst thou save them? 1 have beeu 
vowing all 1 could'think ot to our Lady and the saints, and now 
they are going to grant it!” 

” Tarry a little,” said the alderman. ” 1 must know more of 
this. Where wouldst tnou take my child? How obtain access to 
the king’s grace?” 

” Worshipful sir, trust me,” said Randall, ” Thou knowst 1 am 
sworn servant to m}"^ loid cardinal, and that his folk are as free ot 
the court as the king’s own servants. If thine own folk will take 
us up the river to Richmond, and there wait for us while 1 lead the 
maid to the king, 1 can well-nigh sw’ear to thee that she will pre- 
vail.” 

The alderman looked greatly distressed. Ambrose threw himself 
on his knees before him, and in an agony 'entreated him to consent, 
assuring him that Master Randall could do what he promised. 1’he 
alderman was much perple.ted. He knew that his mother, who was 
confined to her bed by rheumatism, would be shocked at the idea. 
He longed to accompany his daughter himself, but for him to be 
absent from the sitting ot the court might be fatal to Giles, and he 
could not bear to lose any chance for the poor youths. ^ 

Meantime an interrogative glance and a nod had passed between 
Tibbie and Randall, and when the alderman looked toward the 
former, always his prime minister, the answer was, ‘‘ Sir, me seeni- 
eth that it were well to do as IMaster Randall counseleth. 1 will go 
with Mistress Dennet, if such be j’our will. The lives of two such 
youllxs as our prentices may not lightly be thrown aw’ay, while by 
God’s providence there is any means of striving to save them.” 

Consent then was given, and it wgs further arranged that Dennet 
and her escort should be read}' at the early hour of half -past four, 
so iis to elude the guards who w'ere placed in the streets; and also 
because King Henry in the summer went very early to mass, and 
then to some out-of-door sport. Randall said he would have taken 
his own good woman to have the care of the little mistress but that 
the poor little orphan Spanish wench had wept herself so sick, that 
she could not be left to a stranger. 

Master Headley himself brought the child by back streets to the 
river, and thence down to the Temple stairs, accompanied by Tibbie 
Steelman, and a maid-servant on whose presence her grandmother 
had insisted. Dennet had hardly slept all night for excitement and 
perturbation, and she looked very white, small, and insignificant for 
her thirteen years, when Randall and Ambrose met her, and placed 
her carefully in the barge which was to take them to Richmond. It 
was somewhat fresh in the very early morning, and no one w'as sur- 
prised that Master Randall wore a large dark cloa’k as they rowed 
up the river. There was very little speech between the passengers; 
Dennet sat between Ambrose and Tibbie. They kept their heads 
bowed, Ambrose’s brow was on one hand, his elbow on his knee, 
bjit he spared the other to hold Dennet. He had been longing for 
the old assurance he would once have had, that to vow himself to a 
life of hard service in a convent would be the way to win his 
brother’s life; but he had ceased to be able to feel that such bargains 
were tire right course, or that a convent necessarily afforded sure 


THE armofeee’s PREE'TICES. 129 

way of service, and he never felt more inseenre of the wav and 
means to prayer than in this hour of anguished supplication. 

When they came beyond the cit}', within sight of the trees of 
Sheen, as Richmond was still often called, Randall insisted that Den- 
net should eat some of the bread and meat that Tibbie had brought 
in a wallet for her. “ She must look her best,” he Said aside to the 
foreman. ‘‘ 1 would that she w'ere either more of a babe or better- 
favored ! Our Hal hath a tender heart for a babe and an eye for a 
buxom lass.” 

He bade the maid trim up the child’s cap and irfake the best of 
her arraj’’, and presentl}’^ reached some stairs leading up to the park. 
There he let Ambrose lift her out of the boat. The maid would fain 
have followed, but he prevented this, and when she spoke of her 
mistress having bidden her follow wherever the child went, Tibbie 
interfered, telling her that his master’s orders were that Master 
Randall should do with her as he thought meet. Tibbie himself 
followed until they reached a thicket entirely concealing them from 
the river. Halting here, Randall, with his nephew’s lielp, dive.sted 
himself of his long gown and cloak, his beard and wig, produced 
cockscomb and bauble from his pouch, and stood before the aston- 
ished eyes of Dennet as the jester! 

She recoiled upon Tibbie with a little cry, ‘‘ Oh, why should he 
make sport of us? Why disguise himself?” 

‘‘Listen, pretty mistress,” said Randall. ‘‘ ’Tis no disguise, 
Tilible there can tell you, or my nephew. My disguise lies there,” 
pointing to his sober raiment. ‘‘ Thus only can T bring thee to the 
king’s presence! Didst think it was jest? Nay, verily, I am as 
bound to try to save my sweet Stevie’s life, my sister’s own gallant 
son, as thou canst be to plead for thy betrothed.” Dennet winced. 

‘‘ Mistress Dennet,” said Tibbie, ‘‘ thou mayst trust him, spite 
of his garb, and ’tls the sole hope. He could only thus bring thee 
in. Go thou on, and the lad and 1 will fall to our prayers.” 

Dennet’s bosom heaved, but she looked up in the jester’s dark 
eyes, saw the tears in them, niade an effort, put her hand in his, and 
said, ” 1 will go with him.” 

Hal led her awa}', and they saw Tibbie and Ambrose both fall on 
their knees behind the hawthorn bush, to speed them with their 
prayers, while all the joyous birds singing their carols around seemed 
to protest against the cruel captivity and dreadful doom of the young 
gladsome spirits pent up in the City prisons. 

One full gush of a I brush’s song in especial made Dennet’s eyes 
overflow, wdiich the jester perceived and said, ‘‘ Nay, sweet maid, 
no tears. Kings brook not to be approached with blubbered faces. 
1 marvel not that it seems hard to thee to go along with such as 1, 
but let me be what 1 will outside, mine heart is heavy enough, and 
thou wilt learn soonei or later, that fools are not the only folk who 
needs must smile when they have a load witJiin.’’ 

And then, as much to distract her thoughts and prevent tears as 
to reassure her. he toki her what he had before told his nephews of 
the inducements that had made him Wolsey’s jester, and impressed 
on her the forms of address. 

‘‘Thou’ll hear me make tree with him, but that’s part of mine 
otlice, like the kitten I've seen tickling the mane of the lion in the 


130 THE ARMOUKEB's PRENTICES. 

Tower. Thou must say, ‘ An it may please your grace,’ and thou 
needst not speak of his rolling in the mire, thou wottest, or it may 
anger him.” 

The girl showed that her confidence became warmer by keeping 
nearer to his side, and presently she said, ‘‘ 1 must beg for Stephen 
first, for ’tis his whistle.” 

” Blessings on thee, fair wench, for that, yet seest thou, ’tis the 
other springald who is in the greater peril, and he is closer to thy 
lather and to thee.” 

‘‘ lie fled, whfen Stephen made in to' the rescue of my fatlier,” 
said Den net. 

‘‘ The saints grant we may so work with the king that he may 
spare them both,” ejaculated Randall. 

By this time the strange pair were reaching the precincts of the 
great dwelling-house, where about the wide-open door loitered gen- 
tlemen, grooms, lackeys, and attendants of all kinds. Randall rec- 
onnoitred. 

“ An we go up among all these.” he said, ” they might make 
their sport of us both, so that we might lose time. Let us see 
whether the little gartlen postern be open.” 

Henry VIll. had no tears of his people, and kept his dwellings 
more accessible than were the castles of many a subject. The door 
in the wall proved to be open, and, with an e.xclaniation ot joy, 
Randall pointed out two figures, one in a white silken doublet and 
hose, with a short crimson cloak over his shoulder, the other in 
scarlet and purple robes, pacing the walk under the wall — Henry’s 
way of holding a cabinet council with his prime minister on a sum- 
mer’s morning. 

‘‘ Come on, mistress, put a brave face on it!” the jester encouraged 
the girl, as he led her forward, while tire king, catching sight ot 
them, exclaimed, “ Ha! there’s old Patch. What doth he there V” 

But the cardinal, impatient of interruption, spoke imperiously, 
” What dost thou here, Merriman? Away, this is no time for thy 
fooleries and frolics.” 

But the king, with some pleasure in teasing, and some of the en- 
joyment ot a school boy at a break in his tasks, called out, ” Nay, 
come hither, quipsome one! What new puppet has thou brought 
hither to play off on usV” 

“ Yea, Brother Hal,” said the jester, ” 1 have brought one to let 
thee know how Tom of Norfolk and his crew are playing the fool in 
the Guildhall, and to ask who will be the fool to let them wreak 
their spite on the best blood in London, and leave a sore that will 
take many a day to heal.” 

‘‘ How is this, my lord cardinal?” .said Henry; ‘‘1 bade them 
make an example of a few worthless hinds, such as might teach the 
lusty burghers to hold their lads in bounds and prove to our neigh- 
bors that their churlishness was by no consent of ours.” 

‘‘ 1 trow,” returned the cardinal, ‘‘ that one of these same hinds is 
a boon companion of the toors~/<«?c Him lachrymm, and a speech 
that would have befitted a wise man’s mouth.” 

‘‘ There is work that may well make even a fool grave, friend 
Thomas,” replied the jester. 

” Nay, but what hath this little wench to say?” asked the king, 


Q 

THE ARMOUKER’s PREHITCES. 


131 


looking down on the child from under his plumed cap with a face 
set in golden hair, the fairest and sweetest, as it seemed to her, that 
she had ever seen, as he smiled upon her. “ Methinks she is too 
small to be thy love. Speak out, little one. 1 love little maids, 1 
have one of mine own. Hast thou a brother among these misguided 
lads?” 

“Not so, an please your grace,” said Dennet, who fortunately 
was not in the least shy, and was still too young tor a maiden’s 
shamefacedness. “ He is to be my betrothed. 1 would say, one of 
them is, but the other — he saved my father’s life once.” , 

'file latter words were lost in the laughter of the king and cardi- 
nal at the unblushing avowal of the small, prim-faced maiden. 

“ Oh ho! So ’tis a case of true love, whereto a king’s face must 
needs show grace. Who art thou, fair suppliant, and who may this 
swain of thine be?” 

“ I am Dennet Headley, so please your grace; my father is Giles 
Headle}' the armorer, Alderman of Cheap Ward,” said Dennet, do- 
ing her part bravely, though puzzled by the king’s tone of banter; 
“ and see here, your grace!” 

“ Ha! the hawk’s whistle that Archduke Philip gave me! What 
of that? 1 gave it — ay, 1 gave it to a youth that came to mine aid, 
and reclaimed a falcon lor me! Is’t he, child?” 

“ Oh, sir, ’tife he who came in second at the butts, next to Barlow, 
’tis Stephen Birkenholt! And he did nought! They bore no ill-will 
to strangers! No, they were falling on the wicked fellows who had 
robbed and slain good old Master Michael, who taucht our folk to 
make the only real true Damascus blades welded in England. But 
the lawyers of the Inns of Court tell on them all alike, and have 
driven them off to Newgate, and poor little Jasper Hope too. And 
Alderman Muudy bears ili-will to Giles. And the cruel Duke of 
Norfolk and his men swear they'll have vengeance on the Cheap, 
and there’ll be hanging and quartering this very morn. Oh your 
grace, your grace, save our lads for Stephen saved Diy father.” 

“ Thy tongue wags fast, little one,” said the king, good-natured- 
ly, “ with thy Stephen and thy Giles. Is this same Stephen, the 
knight of the whistle and' the bow, thy betrothed, and Giles thy 
brother?” 

“ Nay, your grace,” said Dennet, hanging her heird, “ Giles 
Headley is my betrothed — that is, when his time is served, he will 
be — father sets great store by him, lor he is the only one of our name 
to keep up the armory, and he has a mother, sir, a mother at Salis- 
bury. But oh, sir, sir, Stephen is so good and brave a lad. Ho 
made in to save father from the robbers, and he draws the best bow 
in Cheapside, and he can grave steel as well as Tibbie himself, and 
this is the •whistle your guice wots of.” 

Henry listened with au amused smile that grew bf’oader as Den- 
net’s voice all unconsciously became infinitely more animated and 
earnest, when she began to plead Stephen’s cause. 

“ Well, well, sweetheart,” he said, “ 1 trow thou must have the 
twain of then., though,” he added to the cardinal, who smiled 
broadly, “ it might perchance be more for the maid’s peace than she 
wots of now, were we to leave this same knight of the whistle to bo 
Strung up at once, ere she have found her heart; but in sooth that 1 


132 


THE AKMOUllEll’s PliENTICES. 


cannot do, owing well nigh a life to him and his brother. More- 
over, we may not have old Headley’s skill in weapons lost!” 

Dennet held her hands close clasped while these words were spoken 
apart. She felt as if her hope, half granted, were being snatched 
from her, as another actor appeared on the scene, a gentleman in a 
lawyer’s gown, and square cap, which he defied as he advanced and 
put Iris knee to the ground before the king, who greeted him with 
“ Save you, good Sir Thomas, a fair morning to you.” 

” They told me your grace was in council with my lord cardinal,” 
said Sir Thomas More; ” but seeing that there was likewise this 
merry company, 1 durst venture lo thrust in, since my business is 
urgent.” 

Dennet here forgot court manners enough to cry out, ” O your 
grace, your grace, be pleased for pity’s sake to let me have the par- 
don for them first, or they’ll be hanged and dead. 1 saw the gallows 
in Cheapside, and when they are dead, what good will your grace’s 
mercy do them?” 

“ 1 see,” said Sir Thomas. ” This little maid’s errand jumps 
with mine own, which was to tell your grace that unless there i)e 
speedy commands to the Howards to hold their hands, there will 
be wailing like that of Egypt in the city. The poor boys, who were 
but shouting and brawling after the nature of mettled jmuth — (he 
most with nought of malice — are penned up like ‘sheep for the 
slaughter — ay, and worse than sheep, for we quarter not mutton 
alive, whereas these poor younglings — babes of thirteen, some of 
them — be indicted for high treason. t\’'ill the parents, shut in from 
coming to them by my Lord of Norfolk’s men, ever forget their 
agonies, 1 ask jmur grace?” 

Henry’s face grew red with passion. “ If Norfolk thinks to act 
the king, and turn the city into a shambles” — with a mighty oath 
— ‘‘ he shall abye it. Here, lord cardinal. More, let the free pardon 
be drawn up for the two lads. And we will ourselves write to the 
lord mayor and to Norfolk that though they may work their will on 
the movers of tiie riot — that pestilent Lincoln and his sort — not a 
prentice lad shall be touched till our pleasure be known. There now% 
child, thou hast won the lives of thy lads, as thou callest them. 
Wilt thou rue the day, 1 marvel? Why cannot some of their 
mothers pluck up spirit and beg them oil as thou hast done?” 

“Yea,” said \\olsey. “That w'ere the right course. If the 
(pieen were moved to pray jmur grace to pity the striplings, then 
could the Spaniards make no plaint of too much clemency being 
shown.” 

They w^.ere all this lime getting nearer the palace, and being now' 
at a door opening into the hail, Henry turned round.. “There, 
pretty maid, spread the tidings among thy gossips, that they have a 
tender-hearted queen, and a gracious king. The lord cardinal wdll 
presently give thee the pardon for both thy lads, and by and by thou 
wilt know v>hether thou thankest me for it!” Then putting his 
hand under her chin, he turned up her face to him, kissed her on 
each cheek, and touched his feathered cap to the others, saying, “ See 
that my bidding be done,” and disappeared. 

“ it must be prompt, if it be lo save any marked for death this 


THE ARMOUEER’s PRENTICES. 133 

morn," Slore in a low voice observed to the cardinal. “ Lord Ed- 
mund Howard is keen as a bloodhound on his vengeance.” 

Wolsey was far from being a cruel man, and besides, there was a 
natural antagonism between him and the old nobility, and he liked 
and valued his fool, to whom he turned saying, ” And what stake 
hast thou in this, sirrah? Is’t all pure charity?” 

“ I’m scarce such a fool as that. Cousin Red Hat,” replied Ran- 
dall, rallying his powers. ” 1 leave that to Mr. More here, whom 
we all know to be a good fool spoi’ed. But I’Jl make a clean breast 
of it. This same Stephen is my sister’s son, an orphan lad of good 
birth and breeding — whom, my lord, 1 would die to save.” 

” Thou shalt have the pardon instantly, Merriman,” said the car- 
dinal, and beckoning to one of the attendants who clustered round 
the door, he gave orders that a clerk should instantly, and ver}' 
briefly, make out the form. Sir Thomas More, hearing the name of 
Headley, added that for him indeed the need of haste w'as great, 
since he was one of the fourteen sentenced to die that morning. 

Quipsome Hal was interrogated as to how he had come, and the 
cardinal and Sir Thomas agreed that the river would be as speedy a 
way of returning as by land; but they decided that a king’s pursui- 
vant should accompany him, otherwise there would be uo^ chance of 
forcing his way in time through the streets, guarded by the Howard 
retainers. 

As rapidly as was in the nature of a high offlcer’s clerk to produce 
a dozen lines, the precious document was indited, and it was carried 
at last to Dennet, bearing Henry’s signature and seal. Bhe held it 
to her bosom, while, accompanied by the pursuivant, who— liappily 
for them — w'as interested in one of the unfortunate fourteen, and 
therefore did not wait to stand on his dignity, they hurried across to 
the place where they had left the barge — Tibbie and Ambrose join- 
ing them on the way, Stephen was sate. Of his life there could be 
no doubt, and Ambrose almost repented of feeling his heart so light 
while Giles’s fate hung upon their speed. 

The oars were plied with hearty good-will, but the barge was some- 
what heavy, and by and by coming to a landing-place where tvvo 
w'atermen had a much smaller and ligliter boat, the pursuivaut ad- 
vised that he should go forward with the more necessary persons, 
leaving the others to follow. After a few words, the light weights 
of Tibbie and Dennet prevailed in their favor, and they shot forw'ard 
in the little boat. 

They passed the Temple — on to the stairs nearest Clieapside— up 
the street. There was an awful stillness, only broken by lieavy 
knells sounding at intervals from the churches. The back streets 
were thronged by a trembling, weeping people, who all eagerly made 
way for the pursuivant, as’ he called ” Make way, good people— a 
pardon!” 

They saw the broader space of Cheapside. Horsemen in armor 
guarded it, but they too opened a passage for the pursuivant. There 
was to be seen above the people’s heads a scaffold. A lire burned on 
it — the gallows and noosed rope hung above. 

A figure was mounting the ladder. A boy! Oh, Heavens! would 
it be too late? Who was it? They were still too far off to see. They 
might only be cruelly holding out hope to one of the doomed. 


134 THE armourer’s prentices. 

The pursuivant shouted aloud — “ In the king’s name, hold!” lie 
lifted Denueton his shoulder, and bade her wave her parchment. An 
overpowering roar arose. “A pardon! a pardon! God save the 
king!” 

Every hand seemed to be forwarding the pursuivant and the child, 
and it was Giles Headley, who, loosed from the hold of the execu- 
tioner, stared wildly about him, like one distraught. 


CHAPTER XVIll. 
paudon. 

‘ What if,’ quoth she, ‘ by Spanish blood 
Have London’s stately streets been wet, 

Yet will I seek this country’s good 
And pardon for these young men get.’ ” 

Churchill. 

The night and morning had been terrible to the poor boys, who 
only had begun to understand what awaited them. The fourteen 
selected had little hope, and indeed a priest came in early morning to 
hear the confessions .of Giles Headley and George Bates, the only 
two who were in Newgate. 

George Bates was of the stolid, heavy disposition that seems armed 
by outward indifference, or mayhap pride. He knew that his case 
was hopeless, and he would not thaw even to the priest. But Giles 
had been quite unmanned, and when he found that for the doleful 
procession to the Guildhall he was to be coupled with George Bates,' 
instead of either of his room-fellows, he flung himself on Stephen’s 
neck, sobbing out messages tor his niother, and entreaties that, if 
Stephen survived, he would be good to Aldonza. ” For you will 
wed Dennet, and — ” 

There the jailei's roughly ordered him to hold his peace, and 
dragged him off to be pinioned to his fellow- sufferer. Stephen was 
not called till some minutes later and had not seen him since. He 
himself was of course overshadowed bj*^ the awful gloom of appre- 
hension for himself, and pity for his comrades, and he was grieved 
at not having seen or heard of his brother or master, but he had a 
very present caie in .lasper, who was sickening in the prison atmos- 
phere, and when fastened to his arm, seemed hardly able to w’alk. 
Leashed as they were, Stephen could only help him by holding the 
free hand, and when they came to the hall, supporting him as much 
as possible, as they stood in the miserable throng during the con- 
clusion of the formalities, which ended by the horrible sentence of 
the traitor being pronounced on the whole two hundred and seventy- 
eight. Poor little Jasper woke for an interval from tlie sense of pres- 
ent discomfort to hear it. He seemed to stiffen all over with the 
shock of horror, and then hung a dead weight on Stephen’s arm. 
It would have dragged him down, but there was no rooom to tall, 
and the wretchedness of the lad against whom he staggered found 
vent in a surly imprecation, which was lost among the cries and the 
entreaties of some of the otliem. The London magistiacy were some 
of them in tears, but the indictment for high treason removed the 
poor lads from their jurisdiction to that of the Earl Marshal, and 


THE AEMOUREU'S PRENTICES. 135 

thus they could do nothing to save the fourteen foremost victims. 
The others were again driven out of the hall to return to their 
prisons; the nearest pair of lads doing their best to help Stephen 
drag his burden along. In the halt outside, to arrange the sad pro- 
cessions, one of the guards, of milder mood, cut the cord that bound 
the lifeless weight to Stephen, and permitted the child to be laid on 
the stones of the court, his collar unbuttoned, and water to be 
brought. Jasper was just reviving when the word came to march, 
but still he could not stand, and Stephen was therefore permitted 
the tree use of his arms, in order to carry the poor little fellow. 
Thirteen years made a considerable load for sixteen, though Stephen’s 
arms were exercised in the smithy, and it was a sore pull from West- 
minster. Jasper presently recovered enough to walk with a good 
deal of support. When he was laid on the bed be fell into an ex- 
hausted sleep, while Stephen kneeling, as the strokes of the knell 
smote on his ear, prayed — as he had never prayed before— for his 
comrade, for his enemy, and for all the unhappy boys who were be- 
ing led to their death wherever the outrages had been committed. 

Once indeed there was a strange sound coming across that of the 
knell. It almost sounded like an acclamation of joy. Could people 
be so ciuel, thought Stephen, as to mock poor Giles's agonies? There 
were the knells still sounding. How long he did not know, tor a 
beneficent drowsiness stole over him as he knelt, and he wus only 
awaked, at the same time as Jasper, by the opening of his door. 

He looked up to see three figures — his brotlier, his uncle, his mas- 
ter. Were they come to take leave of him? But the one conviction 
that their faces beamed with joy was all that he could gather, tor 
little Jasper sprung up with a scream of terror, “ Stephen, Stephen, 
save me! They will cut out my heart,” and clung trembling to his 
breast, with arms round his neck. 

‘‘Poor child! poor child!” sighed Master Headley. ‘‘ Would that 
1 brought him the same tidings as to thee!” 

‘‘ Is it so?” asked Stephen, reading confirmation as he looked 
from the one to t!ie other. Though he was unable to rise for the 
weight of the boy, life and light were coming to his ej^e, while Am- 
brose clasped his hand tightly, choked by the swelling of his heart 
in almost an agony of joy and thankfulness. 

‘‘ Yea, my good lad,” said the alderman. ‘‘ Thy good kinsman 
took my little wench to bear to the king the token he gave thee.” 

‘‘ And Giles?” Stephen asked, ‘‘ and the rest?” 

‘‘Giles is safe. For the rest— may God have mercy on their 
souls.” 

These words passed while Stephen rocked Jasper backward and 
forward, his face hidden on his neck. 

” Come home,” added Master Headley. ‘‘ My little Dennet and 
Giles cannot yet rejoice till thou art with them. Giles would have 
come himself but lie is sorely shaken, and could scarce stand.” 

Jasper caught the words, and loosing his friend’s neck, looked up. 
‘‘Oh! are we going home? Come, Stephen. Where’s brother 
Simon? 1 want my good sister! 1 want nurse! Oh! take mo 
home!” For as he tried to sit up, he fell back sick and dizzy on the 
bed. 

‘‘Alack! alack!” mourned Master Headley; and the jester, mut- 


136 


THE AEMOUEEE*S PRENTICES. 


tering that it was not the little wench’s fault, turned to the window, 
and burst into tears. Stephen understood it ali, and though he felt a 
passionate longing for freedom, he considered in one moment whether 
there were any one of his fellow prisoners to whom Jasper could be 
left, or who would be of the least comfort to him, but could find no 
one, and resolved to cling to him as once to old Spring. 

“ Sir,” he said, as he rose to his master, ” 1 fear me he is very 
sick. Will they — will your worship give me license to bide with 
him till this ends?” 

“Thou art a good-heurted lad,” said the alderman with a hand 
on his shoulder. “ There is no further danger of life to the prentice 
lads. The kins hath sent to forbid all further dealing with them, 
and hath bidden my little maid to set it about that if their mothers 
beg them grace from good Queen Katharine, they shall have it. But 
this poor child! lie can scarce be left. Ilis brother will take it well 
of thee if thou wilt stay with him till some tendance can be had. 
We can see to that. Thanks be to St. George and our good king, 
this good city is our own again!” 

The alderman turned away, and Ambrose and Stephen exchanged 
a passionate embrace, feeling what it was to be still left to one an- 
other. The jester too shook his nephew’s hand, saying, “ Boy, boy, 
the blessing of such as 1 is scarce worth the having, but 1 would thy 
mother could see thee this day.” 

Stephen was left with these words and his brother’s look to bear 
him through a trying time. 

For the “ Captain of Newgate ” was an autocrat, who looked on 
his captives as compulsory lodgers, out of whom he was entitled to 
wring as much as possible — as indeed he had no other salary, nor 
means of maintaining bis underlings, a state of tilings which lasted 
on tw'o hundred j'ears longer until the da 3 "S of Janies Oglethorpe 
and .lohn Howmrd. Even in the rare cases of acquittals, the prisoner 
could not be released till he had paid his fees, and that Giles Head- 
ley should have been borne ofi from the scaffold itself in debt to 
him was an invasion of his privileges which did not dispose him to 
be favorable to any one connected with that affair; and he liked to 
show his power and dignity even to an alderman. 

fie was found sitting in a comfortable tapestried chamber, hand- 
somely dressed in orange and brown, and with a smooth sleek coun- 
tenance and the appearance of a good-natured substantial citizen. 

He onlj"^ half rose from his big carved chair, and touched without 
removing his cap, to greet the alderman, as he observed, without the 
accustomed prefi.x of your w'orship — “ So, you are come about your 
prentice’s fees and dues. By St. Peter of the Fetters, ’tis an irksome 
matter to have such a troop of idle, mischievous, daiiitj" striplings 
thrust on one, giving more trouble and makimr more call and outciy 
than twice as manj' honest thieves and pickpiirses.” 

“ Be assured, sir, they will scarce trouble j’ou longer than they 
can help,” said Master lleadley. 

“ Yea, the duke and mj^ Lord Edmund are making brief work of 
them,” quoth the jailer. “ Ha!” with an oath, “ what’s that? 
Naught will daunt those lads till the hangman is at their throats.” 

For it was a real hurrah that reached his ears. The jester had got 
all the toys round him in the court, and was bidding them keep up 


THE AKMOUE Ell’s PRENTICES. 137 

a good heart, for their lives were safe, and their mothers would beg 
them off. Their shouts did not tend to increase the captain’s good 
humor, and though he certainly would not have let out Alderman 
Headley’s remaining apprentice without his tee, he made as great a 
favor of permission, and charged for it as exorbitantly, for a par- 
doned man to remain within his domains as if they had been the 
most costly and delightful hostel in the kingdom. 

Master Hope, who presently arrived, had to pay a high fee for 
leave to bring Master Todd, the barber-surgeon, with him to see his 
brother; but though he ottered a mai'k a day (a huge amount at that 
time) the captain was obdurate in refusing to allow the patient to be 
attended by his own old nurse, declaring that it was contrary to dis- 
cipline, and (what probabl^f affected him much more) one such wom- 
an would cause more trouble than a dozen felons. No doubt it was 
true, for she would have insisted on moderate cleanliness and com- 
fort. No other attendant whom Mr. Hope could find would endure 
the disgrace, the discomfort, and alarm of a residence in Newgale 
for Jasper’s sake; so that the draper’s gratitude to Stephen Jhi ken- 
holt. for voluntarily sharing the little fellow’s caplivity, was great, 
and he gave payment to one or two of the officials to secure their be- 
ing civilly treated, and that the provisions sent in reached them 
duly. 

Jasper did not in general seem very ill by day, only heavy, listless 
and dull, unable to eat, too giddy to sit up, and unable ter help cry- 
ing like a babe if Stephen left him for a moment; but he never fell 
asleep without all the horror and dread of the sentence coming over 
him. Like all the boys in London, he had gazed at executions with 
the sort of cuiiosity that leads rustic lads to run to see pigs killed, 
and now tlie details came over him in semi-delirium, as acted out on 
himself, and he shrieked and slruggled in an anguish which was 
only mitigated by Stephen’s reassurances, caresses, even scoldings. 
The other youths, relieved from the apprehension of death, agreed 
to regard their detention as a holiday, and not being squeamish, 
made the j'ard into a playground, and there they certainly made up- 
roar and pla3''ed pranks enough to justify the preference of the cap- 
tain for full grown criminals. But Stephen could not join them, for 
Jasper would not spare him tor an instant, and he himself, though 
at first sorely missing employment and exercise, was growing drowsy 
and heavy limbed in his cramped life and the evil atmosphere; even 
the sick longings for libert}’^ were gradually passing away from him, 
so that sometimes he felt as it he had lived heie for ages and known 
no other life, though no sooner did he lie down to rest and shut his 
eyes than the trees and green glades of the New Forest rose before 
him, with all the hollies shining in the summer light, or the goi-se 
making a sheet of gold. 

The time was not in reality so very long. On the 7th of May, 
John Lincoln, the broker, who had incited Canon Beale to preach 
against the foreigners, was led forth with several others of the real 
promoters of the riot to the center of Cheapside, where Lincoln 
was put to death, but orders were brought to r6spite the rest; and at 
the same time all the armed men were withdrawn, and Hie city be- 
gan to breathe, and the women who had been kept within doors to 
go abroad again. 


138 


THE armourer’s PRENTICES. 

The Recorder of Loudon and several aldermen were to meet the 
king at his manor of Greenwich. This was the mothers’ oppor- 
tunity. The civic dignitaries rode in mourning robes, but the wives 
and mothers, sweethearts and sisters, every woman who had a youth’s 
life at stake, came together, took boat, and w^ent down the river, a 
strange fleet of barges, all containing white caps, and black gowns 
and hoods, for all were clad in the most correct and humble citizen’s 
costume. 

“ Never was such a sight,” said Jester Randall, who had taken 
onre to secure a view, and who had come with nis report to the 
Dragon Court. ‘^It might have been Ash Wednesday for the look of 
them, when they^ landed and got into order. One would think every 
prentice had got at least three mothers and four or five aunts 
and sisters! 1 trow, verily, that half of them came to look on at the 
other half, and get a sight of Greenwich and the three queens. How- 
ever, be that as it might, not one of them but knew how to open the 
sluices. The queen noted well what was coming, and she and the 
Queens of Scotland and France sat in the great chamber with the 
doors open. And immediately there’s a knock at the door, and so 
soon as the usher opens it, in they come, three and three, every good 
wife of them with her napkin to her eyes, and working away with 
her sobs. Then Mistess Todd, the barber-surgeon’s wife, she spoke for 
all, being thought to have the more courtly tongue, having been 
tirewoman to Queen Mary ere she went to France. Verily her hus- 
band must have penned the speech tor her — tor it began right 
scholarly, and flowery, with a likening of themselves to the mothers 
of Bethlehem, (lusty innocents theirs, 1 trow!) but ere long the good 
woman tallered and iorgot her part, and broke out ‘ Oh! madam, 
you that are a mother ymurself, for the sake of your own sweet babe, 
give us back our sons. ’ And therewith they all fell on their knees, 
weeping and wringing their hands, and crying out ‘ Mercy, mercy! 
For our Blessed Lady’s sake, have pity on our children!’ till the 
good queen, with the tears running down her cheeks for very ruth, 
told them that the power was not in her hands, but the will was for 
them and their poor sons, and that she would strive so to plead for 
them with the king as to win their freedonr. Meantime there were 
the aldermen watching for the king in his chamber of presence, till 
forth he came, when all fell on their knees, and the recorder spake 
for them, casting all the blame on the vain and light persons who 
had made that enormity. Thereupon what does our Hal but make 
himself as stern as though he meant to string them all up in a line. 

‘ Ye ought to wail and be sorry,’ said he, ‘ whereas ye say that sub- 
stantial persons were not concerned, it appeareth to the contrary. 
You did wink at the matter,’ quoth he, ’ and at this time we will 
grant you neither favor nor good-will.’ However, none who knew- 
Ilal’s eye but could tell that ’twas all very excellent fooling, when 
he bade (hem get them to the cardinal. Therewith, in came the three 
queens, hand in hand, with tears in their eyes, so as they might have 
been the three queens that bore away King Arthur, and down they 
went on their knees, and cried aloud, ‘ Dear sir, we who are mothera 
oui selves, beseech you to set the hearts at ease of all the poor moth- 
ers who are mourning for their sons.’ Whereupon the door being 
opened came in so piteous a sound of wailing and lamentation ^ 


THE armourer’s PRENTICES. 139 

Our ITarry’s name must have been Herod to withstand! ‘ Stand up, 
Kate,’ saith he, ‘ stand up, sisters, and hark in your ear. Not ft hair 
of the silly lads shall be touched, but they must bide lock and key 
long enough to teach them and their masters to keep better ward. ’ 
And then when the queens came back with the good tidings, such 
a storm of blessings was never heard, laughinsrs and cryings, and 
the like, for verily some of the women seemed as distraught for joy 
as ever they had been for grief and tear. Moreover, Mistress Todd, 
being instructed of her husband, led up Mistress Hope to Queen 
Mary, and told her the tale of how her husband’s little brother, a 
mere babe, la)"^ sick in prison — a mere babe, a suckling as it were — 
and was like to die there unless the sooner delivered, and now our 
Steve was fool enough to tarry with the poor child, pardoned tnough 
he be. Then the good lady wept again, and ‘Good woman,’ saith she 
to Mistress Hope, ‘ the king will set thy brother free anon. His 
wrath is not with babes, nor with lads like this other of whom tliou 
speakest. ’ 

“ So off was she to the king again, and though he and his master 
pished and pshawed, and said if one and another weie to be set free 
privily in this sort, there would be none to wane and beg for mercy 
as a warning to all malapert youngsters to keep within bounds. 

‘ Nay, verily,’ quoth 1, seeing the moment tor shooting a fool’s bolt 
among them, ‘ melhinks Master Death will have been a pick-lock 
before you are ready for them, and then who will stand to cry 
mercy?’ ” 

The narrative was broken off short by a cry of jubilee in the court. 
■Workmen, boys, and all were thronging together. Kit Smallbones’s 
head J;owering in the midst. Vehement welcomes seemed m prog- 
ress. “ Stephen! Stephen!” shouted Dennet, and flew out of the 
hall and down the steps. 

‘‘ The lad himself !” exclaimed the jester, leaping down after her. 

‘‘ Stephen, the good boy!’ said Master Headley, descending more 
slowly, but not less joyfully. 

Yes, Stephen himself it was, who had quietly walked into the 
court. Master Hope and Master Todd had brought the ordor for 
Jasper’s release, had paid the captain’s exorbitant lees lor both, and 
while the sick boy was carried home in a litter, Stephen had entered 
the Dragon Court through the gates, as it he were coming home from 
an errand, though the moment he was recognized by the little four- 
year-old Smallbones, there had been a general rash and shout of 
ecstatic welcome, led by Giles Headley, who fairly threw himself 
on Stephen’s neck, as they met like comrades at ter*a desperate battle. 
Not one was there who did not want a grasp of the boy’s hand, and 
who did not pour out welcomes and greetings, while in the midst, 
the released captive looked, to say the truth, very spiritless, faded, 
dusty, nay dirty. The court seemed spinning round with him, and 
the loud welcomes roared in her ears. He was glad that Dennet took 
one hand, and Giles the other, declaring that he must be led to the 
grandmother instantly. 

He muttered something about being in too foul trim to go near 
her, but Dennet held him fast, and he was too dizzy to make much 
resistance. Old Mrs. Headly was better again, though not able to 


140 THE armourer's PRENTICES. 

do much but sit by the fire kept burning to drive away the plague 
which was always smoldering in London. 

She held out* her hands to Stephen, as he knelt down by her. 

“ Take an old woman’s blessing, my good lad,” she said. “ Kight 
glad am 1 to see thee once more. Thou wilt not be the worse for 
the pains thou hast spent on the little lad, though they have tried 
thee sorely.” 

Stephen, becoming somewhat less dazed, tried to fulfill his long 
cherished intention of thanking Dennet for her intercession, but the 
instant he tried to speak, to his dismay and indignation, tears choked 
his voice, and he could do nothing but weep, as if, thought he, his 
manhood had been left behind in the jail. 

” Vex not thySelf,” said the old dame as she saw him struggling 
with his sobs. ” Thou art worn out — Giles here was not half his 
own man when he came out, nor is he yet. Kay, beset him not, 
children. He should go to his chamber, change these garments, and 
rest ere supper-time. 

Stephen was fain to obey, only murmuring an inquiry for his 
brother, to which his uncle responded that if Ambrose were at 
home, the tidings would send him to the Dragon instantly, but he 
was much with his old master, who was preparing to leave Eng- 
land, his work here being ruined. 

The jester then took leave, accepting conditionally an invitation 
to supper. Master Headley, Smallbones, and Tibbie now knew who 
he was, but the secret was kept from all the rest of the household, 
lest it should affect Stephen’s peace. 

Cold water was not much affected by the citizens of London, but 
smiths' and armorers’ work entailed a freer use of it thaa less 
grimy trades; and a bath and Sunday garments made Stephen more 
like himself, though still he felt so w'eary and depressed that he 
missed the buoyant joy of release to which he had been looking for- 
ward. 

He was sitting on the steps, leaning against the rail, so tired that 
he hoped none of his comrades would notice that he had come out, 
when'Amtrose hurried into the court, having just heard tidings of 
his freedom, and w^as at his side at once. The two brothers sat to- 
gether, leaning against one another as it they had all that they could 
wish or long for. They had not met for more than a week, for Am- 
brose’s finances had not availed to fee the turnkeys to give him en- 
trance. 

‘‘ And what art thou doing, Ambrose?” asked Stephen, rousing a 
little from his lethafgy. ‘‘ Methought 1 heard mine uncle say thine 
occupation was gone?” 

” Even so,” replied Ambrose. ‘‘ Master Lucas will sail in a week’s 
time to join his brother at Rotterdam, bearing with him what he 
hath been able to save out of the havoc. 1 wot not if 1 shall ever 
see the good man more.” 

” 1 am glad thou dost not go with him,” said Stephen, with a 
hand on his brother’s leather-covered knee. • 

‘‘ 1 would not put seas between us,” returned Ambrose. “ More- 
over, though I grieve to lose him, my good ma.ster, who hath been 
so scurvily entreated here, yet, Stephen, this trouble and turmoil hath 


THE AEMOUEEr’s PRENTICES. 141 

brorisrlit me that which 1 had longed for above all, even to have 
sjieech with the Dean of St. Paul’s.” 

He then told Stephen how lie had brought Dean Colet to adminis- 
ter the last rites to Abcnali, and how that good man had bidden 
Lucas to take shelter at the deanery, in the desolation ot his own 
abode. This had led to conversation between the dean and the 
printer; Lucas, who distrusted all ecclesiastics, would accept no pat- 
ronage. He had a little hoard, buried in the corner of his stall, 
which would suffice to carrj' him to his native home, and he wanted 
no more, but he had spoken of Ambrose, and the dean was quite 
ready to be interested in the youth who liad led him to Abeuali. 

” He had me to his privy chamber,” said Ambrose, ” and spake 
to me as no man hath yet spoken — no, not even Tibbie. He let me 
utter all my mind, nay, 1 never wist before even what mine own 
thoughts were till he set them before me — as it were in a mirror.” 

■ Thou wast ever in a harl,” said Stephen, drowsily, using the 
Hampshire word for whirl or entanglement. 

‘‘ Yea. On the one side stoodall that 1 had ever believed or learned 
before 1 came hither ot tlie one true and glorious Mother-Church to 
whom the Blessed Lord had committed the keys of His kingdom, 
through His holy martjTS and priests to give us the blessed host and 
lead us in the way of salvation. And on the other side, 1 cannot but 
see the lewd and sinful and -worldly lives ol the most part, and hear 
the lies whereby they amass wealth and turn men from the spirit of 
truth and holiness to delude them into believing that willful sin can 
be committed without harm, and that purchase of a parchment is as 
good as repentance. That do 1 see and hear. And therewith my 
[Master Lucas and Dan Tindall, and those of the new light, declare 
that all has been false even from the ver}"^ outset, and that all the 
pomp and beauty is but Satan’s bait, and that to believe in Christ 
alone is all that needs to justify us, casting all the rest aside. All 
seemed a mist, and I was swayed hither and thither till the more 1 
read and thought, the greater was the fog. And this— 1 know not 
whether 1 told it to yonder good and holy doctor, or whether he 
knew it, for his eyes seemed to see into me, and he told me that he 
had felt and thought much the same. But on that one great truth, 
that faith in the Pa.ssion is salvation, is the Church built, though 
sinful men have hidden it by their circus and lies as befell before 
among the Israelites, whose law, like ours, was divine. Whatever is 
intrusted to man, he said, will liecome stained, soiled, and twisted, 
though the power of the Holy Spirit will strive to lenew it. Ami 
such an outjiouring ot cleansing and renewing power is, he saith, 
abroad in our day. When he was a young man, this good father, so 
he said, hoped great things, and did his best to set forth the truth, 
both at Oxford and here, as indeed he hath ever done, he and the 
good Doctor Erasmus, striving to turn men’s eyes back to the sim- 
plicity of God’s Word rather than to the arguments and deductions 
of the schoolmen. And for the abuses ot evil priests that have 
sprung up, my lord cardinal sought the Legatine Commission from 
our Holy Father at Rome to deal with them. But Dr. Colet saith that 
there are other forces at work, and he doubtcth gieatly whether this 
same cleansing can be done without some great and terrible rending 
and upheaving, that may even split the Church as it were asunder — 


142 THE ahmourer’s prektices. 

since judgment surely awaiteth such as will not he reformed. But, 
quoth' he, ‘ Our Mother-Church is God’s own Church and I will 
abide by her- to the end, as the means of oneness with my Lord and 
Plead, and do thou the same, my son, for thou art liKe to be more 
.sorely tried than will a frail old elder like me, who would tain say 
his Nune Dinuttis, it such be the Lord’s will, ere the foundations be 
cast down.” 

Ambrose had gone on rehearsing all these words with the absorp- 
tion of one lo whom they were everything, till it occurred to him to 
wonder that Stephen had listened to so much with patience and 
assent, and then, looking at the position of head and hands, he per- 
ceived that his brother was asleep, and came to a sudden halt. This 
rousetl Stephen to say, ” Eh? What? The dean — will he do aught 
for thee?” 

” Yea,” said Ambrose, recollecting that there was little use in re- 
turning to the perplexities which Stephen could not enter into. ‘ ‘ lie 
deemed that in this mood of mine, yea, and as matters now be at the 
universities, 1 had best not as yet study there for the priesthood. 
But he said he would commend me to a friend whose life would bet- 
ter show me how the new gives life to the old than any man he wots 
of.” 

“ One of thy old doctors in barnacles, 1 trow,” said Stephen. 

“ Nay, veiiiy. We saw him t’other night periling his life to stop 
the poor crazy prentices, and save the foreigners. Dennet and our 
uncle saw him pleading for them with the king.” 

“ Whai ! Sir Thomas More?” 

“ Ay, no other, lie needs a clerk for his law matters, and the 
dean said he wmuld speak of me to him. lie is to sup at the deanery 
to- morrow, and 1 am to be in waiting to see him. I shall go with a 
lighter heart now that thou art beyond the clutches of the captain of 
Newgale. ” 

“Speak no more of that!” said Stephen, with a shudder. 
“ Would that 1 could forget it!” 

In truth Stephen’s healtu had suffered enough to change the bold, 
high-spirited, active lad, so that he hardly knew himself. lie was 
quite incapable of work all the next day, and Mistress Headley began 
to dread that he had brought home jail fever, and insisted on his 
being inspected by the barber-surgeon, Todd, who proceeded to bleed 
the patient, in order, as he said, to carry off the humors contracted 
in the prison. He had done the same by Jasper Hope, and by Giles, 
but he followed the treatment up with better counsel, namely, that 
the lads should all be sent out of the city to some farm where they 
might eat curds and whey, until their strength should be restored. 
Thus they would be out of reach of the sweating sickness which 
was already in some of the purlieus of St. Katharine’s Docks, and 
must be specially dangerous in their lowered condition. 

Master Hope came in just after this counsel had been given. He 
had a sister married to the host of a large prosperous inn near Wind- 
sor, and he proposed to send not only Jasper but Stephen thither, 
feeling how great a debt of gratitude he ow'ed lo the lad. Remem- 
bering well the good young Alislress Strcatfleld and knowing that 
the Antelope w'lxs a large old bouse of excellent repute, where she 
often lodged persons of quality attending on the court or needing 


143 


THE AllMOUllEll’s PllENTICES. 

countr}' air, IMasster Heaclle}^ added Giles to the party at his own ex- 
pense, and wislied also to send Dennet for treater security, only 
neither her grandmother noi ]\lrs. Hope could leave home. 

It ended, however, in Perronel Randall beina: asked to take charge 
of the whole party, including Aldouza. That little damsel had been 
in a manner confided to her both by the Dean of St. Paul’s and by 
Tibbie Steelman — and iudeed the motherly woman, after nursing 
and soothing her through her first despair at the loss of her father, 
w;is already loving her heartily, and Wivs glad to give her a place in 
the home which Ambrose was leaving on being made an attendant 
on Sir Thomas IMore. 

T'or the interview at the deanery was satisfactory. The young 
man, after a good supper, enlivened by the sweet singing of some 
chosen pupils of St. Paul’s school, was called up to where the dean 
sat, and with him the man of the peculiarly sweet countenance, with 
the noble and deep expiession, yet withal, something both tender 
and humorous in it. 

They made liim tell his whole life and asked many questions about 
Abenali, specially about the fragment of Arabic scroll which had 
been clutched in his hand even as he lay dying. They much re- 
gretted never having known of his existence till too late. “ Jewels 
lie before the unheeding!” said More. Then Ambrose was called on 
to show a specimen of his own penmanship, and to write from Sir 
Thomas’s dictation in English and in Latin. The result was that 
he was engaged to act as one of the clerks Sir I'homas employed in 
his occupations alike as lawyer, statesman, and scholar. 

“ Methinks 1 have seen thy face before,” said Sir Thomas, look- 
ing keenly at him ‘‘ 1 have beheld those black eyes, though with 
a different favor.” 

Ambrose blushed deeply. ” Sir, it is but honest to tell you that 
my mother’s brother is jester to my lord cardinal.” 

” Quipsome ITal Merriman! Patch as the king callelh him!” ex- 
claimed Sir Thomas. “ A man I have ever thought wore the motley 
rather from excess, than infirmity, of wit.” 

“ Nay, sir, so please you, it was his good heart that made him a 
jester ” said Ambrose, explaining the stor}' of Randall and his Per- 
ronel in a few words, which touched the friends a good deal, and the 
dean remembered that she was in charge of the little ]\loresco girl, 
lie lost nothing by dealing thus openly with his new master, who 
promised to keep his secret for him, then gave him handsel of his 
salary, and bade him collect his possessions, and come to take up his 
abode in the house of the More family at Chelsea. 

lie would still often see his brother in the intervals of attending 
Sir Thomas to the courts of law’, but the chief present care was to 
get the boys into purer air, bolh to expedite their recovery and to in- 
sure them against being dragged into the penitential company who 
w'ere to ask for their lives ou the 22d of ]\Iay, consisting of such of 
the prisoners who could still stand or go— tor jail-fever was making 
havoc among them, and some of the belter-couditioned had been re- 
leased b 3 ' private interest. The remainder, not more than half of 
the original two hundred and seventy-eight, were stripped to their 
shirts, had halters hung round their necks, and then, roped together 
as before, were driven through the streets to Westminster, w'here the 


tup: akj^ioujier’s piienti€p:s. 


H4 

king sat enthroned. There, looking utterlj' miserable, they fell on 
their knees before him, and received his pardon for their mis- 
demeanors. They leturned to their masters, and so ended that 111 
iVIay-day, which was the longer remembered because one Churchill, 
a ballad monger in St. Paul's Churchyard, indited a poem on it, 
wherein he swelled the number ot prentices to two thousand, and of 
the victims to two hundred. Will Wherry, who escaped from 
among the prisoners very forlorn, was recommended by Ambrose to 
the work ot a carter at the Dragon, which he much preferred to 
ininting. 


, CHAPTER XIX, 

AT THE ANTELOPE. 

“ Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen 
Full many a sprightly race, , 

Disporting on thy margent green, 

The paths of pleasure trace.” 

Gray. 

Master Hope took all the guests by boat to Windsor, and very 
soon the little partj’^ at the Antelope was in a state of such perfect 
felicity as became a proverb with them all- their lives afterward. It 
was an inn wherein to take one’s ease, a large hostel full of accom- 
modation tor man and horse, with a big tapestried room of entertain- 
ment below, where meals were taken, with an oriel window with a 
view of the Round Tower, and above it a still more charming one, 
known as the Red Rose, because one of the Dukes of Somerset had 
been wont to lodge there. The walls were tapestried with the story 
of St. Genoveva ot Brabant, fresh and new on IMrs. Streatfield’s mar- 
riage; there was a huge bed with green cuilains of that dame’s own 
work, where one might have said 

“ Above, below, the rose of snow. 

Twined with her blushing foe we spread,” 

SO as to avoid all offense. There was also a cupboard or sideboard 
of the choicer plate belonging to the establishment, and another 
awmiy containing appliances for chess and backgammon, likewise 
two large chairs, several stools, and numerous chests. 

This apartment was given up to Mistress Randall and the two girls, 
subject however to the chance of turning out for any very dis- 
tinguished guests. The big bed held all three, and the chamber w'as 
likewise their sitting-room, though they took their meals dowm-stairs, 
and joined the party in the common room in the evening whenever 
they were not out of doors, unless there were guests whom Perronel 
did not think desirable company for her charges. Stephen and Giles 
Avere quartered in a small room known as the Feathers, smelling so 
sweet of lavender and woodruff that Stephen declared it carried him 
back to the Forest. Mrs. Streatfield would have taken Jaspef to 
tend among her children, but the boy could not boar to be without 
Stephen, and his brother advised her to let it be so, and not trj’’ to 
make a babe of him again. 

’I'he guest chamber below stairs opened at one end into the inn 
yard, a quadrangle surrounded with stables, outhouses, and offices. 


THE AIIMOURER’s PRENTICES. 145 

•with a gallery running round to give access to the chambers above, 
where, when the court was at Windsor, two or three great men’s 
trains of retainers might be crowded together. "" 

One door, however, in the side of the guest-chamber had steps 
down to an orchard, full of apple and pear trees in their glory of 
piuR bud and white blossom, borders of roses, gillyflowers and lilies 
of the valley running along under the gray walls. There was a broad 
space of grass near the houses, whence could be seen the Round 
Tower of the Castle looking down in protection, while the back- 
ground of the view was filled up with a mass of the foliage of Wind- 
sor Forest, in the spring tints. 

Stephen never thought of its being beautiful, but he reveled in the 
refreshment of anything so like home, and he had nothing to wish 
for but his brother, and after all he was too contented and happy 
even to miss him much. 

Master Streatfield was an elderly man, fat and easy going, to whom 
talking seemed rather a trouble than otherwise, though he was very 
good-natured. Ills wife was a merry, lively, active wminau, wdio had 
been handed over to him by her father like a piece of Flanders cam- 
bric, but who never seemed to regret her position, managed men and 
maids, farm and guests, kept perfect order without seeming to do 
so, and made great friends Avith Perronel, never guessing that she 
had been one of the strollins company, who, nine or ten years before 
had been refused admission to the Antelope, then crowded with my 
Lord of Oxford’s followers. 

At first, it Avas enough for the prentices to spend most of their 
time in lying about on the grass under the trees. Giles, A\dio Avas in 
the best condition, exerted himself so far as to tr^' to learn chess from 
Aldonza, Avho seemed to be a proficient in the game, and even de- 
feated the good-natured burly pai son Avho came every evening to the 
Antelope, to imbibe slowly a tankard of ale, and hear any news 
there stirring. 

She and Giles were content to spend hours over her instructions in 
chess on that pleasant balcony in the shade of the house. Though 
really only a year older than Deunet Headley, she looked much more, 
and was so in all her ways. It never occurred to her to run child- 
ishly AA'ild Avith delight in the garden and orchard as did Dennet, 
who, with lit tie five-years-old ^M'l Streatfield for her guide and play- 
fellow, rashed about hither and thither, making acquaintance Avith 
hens and chickens, geese and goslings, seeing cows and goats milked, 
watching butter churned, bringing all manner of animal and vege- 
table curiosities to Stephen to be named and explained, and enjoying 
his delight in them, a delight which after the first few days became 
more and more vigorous. 

By and by there w'as punting and fishing on the river, straAvberry 
gathering in the park, explorations of the forest, expeditions of all 
sorts and kinds, Jasper being soon likewise well enough to share in 
them. The boys and girls Avere in a kind of fairy land under Per- 
lonel’s kind wing, the wandering habits of Avhose girlhood made the 
freedom of the country far more congenial to her than it would have 
been to any regular Londoner. 

Stephen was the great oracle, of course, as to the deer respectfully 
peeped at in the park, or the squirrels, the hares and rabbits in the 


14G THE arhouker’s rrentices. 

forest, and the inhabitants of the stream above or below. It was he 
who secured and tamed the memorials of their visit— two starlings 
for Dennet and Aldonza, The birds were to be taught to speak, and 
to do wonders of all kinds, but Aldonza’s bird was found one morn- 
ing dead, and Giles consoled her by the promise of something much 
bigger, and that would talk much better. Two days after he 
brought her a young jackdaw. Aldonza clasped her hands and ad- 
mired its glossjf back and queer blue eye, and was in transports when 
it uttered something between “Jack” and “ ^ood lack.” But 
Dennet looked in scorn at it, and said, “ That’s a bird tamed already, 
lie didn’t catch it. He only bought it! 1 would have none such! 
An ugsome great thieving bird!” 

“ Nay now, Mistress Dennet,” argued Perronel. “ Thou hast thy 
bird, and Alice has lost hers. It is not meet to grudge it to her.” 

“1! Grudge it to her!” said Dennet, with a toss of the head. 
“ 1 grudge her naught from Giles Headley, so long as 1 have my 
Goldspot that Stephen climbed the w’all for, his very self.” 

And Dennet turned majestically away with her bird — Goldspot 
only in the future — perched on lier finger; while Perronel shook her 
head bodingl 3 ^ 

But they were all children still, and Aldonza was of a nature that 
was slow to take ofitense, while it was quite true that Dennet had 
been free from jealousy of the jackdaw, and only triumphant in 
Stephen’s prowess and her own starling. 

The great pleasure of all was a grand stag-hunt, got up for the di- 
version of the French embassadors, who had come to treat for the 
espousals of the infant Princess Mary with the baby “ Dolphyne.” 
Probabl}'^ these illustrious personages did not get half the pleasure 
out of it that the Antelope party had. Were they not, by special 
management of a yeoman pricker w'ho had recognized in Stephen a 
kindred spirit, and had a strong admiration tor lilistress Randall, 
placed where there was the best possible view of hunters, horses, and 
hounds, lords and ladies, king and embassadors, in their gorgeous 
Imnting trim? Did not Stephen, as a true veidurer’s son, interpret 
every note on the horn, and predict just what was going to happen, 
to the edification of all his hearers? And when the final rush took 
place, did not the prentices, with their gowns rolled up, dart off 
headlong in pursuit? Dennet entertained some hope that Stephen 
w'ould again catch some run-away steed, or come to the king’s rescue 
in some way or other, but such chances did not happen every day. 
Nay, Stephen did not even follow up the chase to the death, but left 
Giles to do that, turning back forsooth because that little Jasper 
thought fit to get tired and out of breath, and could not find his way 
back alone. Dennet was quite angry with Stephen and turned her 
back on him, when Giles came in all glorious, at having followed 
up stanchly all day, and having seen the fate of the poor stag, and 
having even beheld the king politely hand the knife to Monsieur de 
!Montmorency to give the first stroke to the quarry! 

That was the last exploit. There was to be a great tilting-match 
in honor of the betrothal, and Master Alderman Headley wanted Ins 
apprentices back again, and having been satisfied by a laborious 
letter from Dennet, sent per carrier, that thej' were in good health, 
dispatched orders by the same means, that they were to hire horses 


THE armoueer’s prentices. 147 

at the Antelope and return — Jasper coming back at the same time, 
though his aunt would fain have kept him longer. 

AVomeu on a journey almost always rode double, and the arrange- 
ment came under debate. Perronel, w'ell accustomed to horse, ass, 
or foot, undertook to ride behind the child, as she called Jasper, who 
— as a born Londoner— knew nothing of horses, though both the 
other prentices did. Giles, who, in right of his name, kindred, and 
expectations, alwa5’^s held himself a sort of master, declared that “ it 
was more lilting that Stephen should ride before Alistress Dennet.” 
And to this none of the party made any objection, except that 
Perronel privately observed to him that she should have thought lie 
would have preferred the company of his betrothed. 

“ 1 shall have quite enough of her by and by,” returned Giles; 
then adding, “ She is a good little wench, but it is more for her 
honor that her father’s servant should ride before her.” 

Perronel held her tongue, and they rode merrily back to London, 
and astonished their several homes by the growth and healthful looks 
of the young people. Even Giles was grown, though he did not like 
to be told so, and was cherishing the down on his chin. But the 
most rapid development had been in Aldonza, or Alice, as Perronel 
insisted on calling her to suit the ears of her neighbors. The girl 
was just reaching the borderland of maidenhood which came all the 
sooner to one of southern birth and extraction, when the great 
change took her from being her father’s childish darling to be Per- 
ronel's companion and assistant. She had lain down on that fatal 
May eve a child, she rose in the little house by the Temple Gardens, 
a maiden, and a very lovely one, with delicate, refined, beautifully 
cut features of a slightly aquiline cast, a bloom on her soft brunette 
cheek, splendid dai'k liquid eyes shaded by long black lashes, under 
brows as regular and well arched as her Eastern cousins could have 
made them artificially, magnificent black hair, that could hardly be 
contained in the close white cap, and a lithe beautiful figure on which 
tthe plainest dress sat with an Eastern grace. Perronel’s neighbors 
did not admire her. They were not sure whether she were most 
Saracen, gypsy or Jew. In fact, she was as like Rachel at the well 
as her father had been to a patriarch, and her descent was of the 
purest Saracen lineage, but a Christian Saracen was an anomaly the 
London mind could not comprehend, and her presence in the family 
tended to cast suspicion that Master Randall himself with his gypsy 
eyes, and mysterious comings and wings, must have some strange 
connections. For this, however, Perronel cared little. She had 
made her own way tor many years past, and had won respect and 
affection by many good offices to her neighbors, one of whom had 
taken her laundry -work in her absence. 

Aldonza was by no means imbecile or incapable. She shared in 
Perronel’s work without reluctance, making good use of her slen- 
der, dainty brown fingeis, wiiether in cooking, household work, 
washing, ironing, plaiting, making or mending the stiff lawn collars 
and Clifts in which her hostess’s business lay. There was nothing 
that she would not do when asked, or when she saw that it would 
save trouble to good Mqther PeiTonel of whom she was very fond, 
and she seemed serene and contented, never wanting to go abroad; 
but she was very silent, and Perronel declared herself never to have 


148 THE AEMOUEEE’s PEEXTICES. 

seen any living woman so perfectly satisfied to do nothing. The 
good dame herself was industrious, not only from thrift but from 
taste, and it not busy in her vocation or in household business, was 
either using her distaff or her needle, or chatting with her neighbors 
— often doing both at once; but though Aldonza could spin, sew, 
and embroider admirably, and would do so at Ihe least request from 
her hostess, it was always a sort of task, and she never seemed so 
happy as when seated on the floor, with her dark eyes dreamily fixed 
on the narrow window, where bung her jackdaw’s cage, and the 
beads of her rosary passing through her fingers. At first Mistress 
Randall thought she was prajdng, but by and by came to the con- 
viction that most of the time “ the wench was bemused.” There 
was nothing to complain of in one so perfectly gentle and obedient, 
and withal, modest and devout, but the good woman, after having 
tor some time given her the benefit of the supposition that she was 
grieving for her father, began to wonder at such want of activity and 
animation, and to think that pn the whole Jack was the more talka- 
tive companion. 

Aldonza had certainly not taught him the phrases he was so fond 
of lepeating. Giles Headley had undertaken his education, and 
made it a reason lor stealing down to (he Temple man}' an evening 
after work was done, declaring that birds never learned so well as 
after dark. Moreover, he had possessed himself of a chess board, 
and insisted that Aldonza should carry on her instructions in the 
game; he brought her all his Holy Cross Day gain of nuts, he used 
all his blandishments to persuade Mrs. Randall to come and see the 
shooting at the popinjay, at Alile End. 

All this made the good woman uneasy. Her husband was away, 
for the dread of sweating sickness had driven the court from London, 
and she could only take counsel with Tibbie Steelman. It was Hal- 
lowmas Eve, and Giles had been the bearer of an urgent invitation 
from Dennet to her friend Aldonza to come and join the diversions 
of the evening. There was a large number of young folk in the hall 
— Jasper Hope among them — mostly contemporaries of Dennet, and 
almost children, all keen upon the sports of the evening, namely, a 
sort of indoor quintain, where the revolving beam was decorated 
with a lighted candle at one end, and at the other an apple to be 
caught at by the players with their mouths, their hands being tied 
behind them. 

Under all the uproarious merriment that each attempt occasioned, 
Tibbie was about to steal off to his own chamber and his beloved 
books, when, as he backed out of the group of spectators, he was ar- 
rested by Mistress Randall, who had made her way into the rear of 
the party at the same time. 

‘‘Can 1 have a word with you, privily, Master Steelman?” she 
asked. 

Unwillingly he muttered, ‘‘ Yea, so please you;” and they retreated 
to a window' at the dark end of the hall, where Perronel began — 
The alderman’s daughter is contracted to young Giles, her kinsman, 
is she not?” 

‘‘ Eot as yet in form, but by the will of, the parents,” returnerf 
Tibbie, impatiently, as he thought of the Theses of Luther w'hich he 
W'as sacrificiug to woman’s gossip. 


149 


THE ARHOURER’s PRENTICES. 

“ An it be so,” returned Perronel, ” 1 would fain— were I I^Iaster 
Heartley— tliat he spent not so many nights in gazing at mine Al- 
ice. ” 

” Forbid him the house, good dame,” 

” Easier spoken than done,” returned Perronel. ‘‘Moreover, ’tis 
better to let the matter, such as it is, be open in my sight than to 
teach them to run after one another stealthily, whereby worse might 
ensue.” 

‘‘Have they spoken then to one another?” asked Tibbie, begin- 
ning to take alarm. 

“ 1 trow not. 1 deem they know not yet what draweth them to- 
gether.” 

” Pish, they are mere babes!” quoth Tib, hoping he might cast it 
oft his mind. 

‘ ‘ Look ! ’ ’ said Perronel, and as they stood on the somewhat elevated 
floor of the bay window, they could look over the heads of the other 
spectators to the seats where the young girls sat, 

Aldonza’s beautiful and peculiar contour of head and face rose 
among the round chubby English faces like a jasmine among 
daisies, and at that moment she was undertaking, with an e.xquisite 
smile, the care of the gown that Giles laid at her feet, ere making his 
venture. 

” There!” said Perronel. ‘‘ Mark that look on her face! I never 
see it save for that same youngster. The children are simple and 
guileless thus far, it may be. 1 dare be sworn that slie is, but they 
• W’ot not where they will be led on.” 

” You are right, dame; you know best, no doubt,” said Tib, in 
helpless perplexity. ‘‘ I wot nothing of such gear, "What would 
you do?” 

‘‘ Have the maid wedded at once, ere any harm come of it,” re- 
turned Perronel, promptly. ‘‘ She will make a good wife— there 
will be no complaining of her tongue, and she is well instructed in 
all good housewifery. ” 

‘‘ To wtiom then would you give her?” a.sked Tibbie. 

‘‘Ay, that’s the question. Comely and good she is, but she is out 
landish, and 1 fear me ’t would take a handsome portion to get her 
dark skin and Moorish blood o’erlooked. Nor hath she aught, poor 
maid, save yonder gold and pearl earrings, and a cross of gold that 
she says her father bade her never part with.” 

‘‘ f pledged my word to her father,” said Tibbie. ‘‘ that 1 would 
have a care of her. 1 have not cared to hoard, having none to come 
after me, but if a matter of twenty or five-and-twenty marks w'ould 
avail—” 

‘‘Wherefore not take her yourself?” said Perronel, as he stood 
aghast. ‘‘ She is a maid of sweet obedient conditions, trained by a 
scholar even like 3 "ourselt. She would make j'our chamber fair and 
comfortable, and tend you dutifu]lJ^” 

‘‘ Whist, good woman. ’Tis too dark to see, or you could 
not speak of wedlock to such as 1. Think of the poor maid!” 

■ ‘‘ That is all follj ! She would soon know you tor a better hus- 

band than one of those young featherpates, who have no care but of 
themselves.” 

‘‘ Nay, mistress,” said Tibbie, gravely; your advice will not serve 


150 


THE ARHOTTTIEr's PREXTTOES. 


liore. To bring that fair young wench hither, to this very court 
inincl you, with a mate loathly to behold as 1 be, and with the lad 
there ever before her, would be verily to give place to the devil.” 

” But you are the best sword-cutler in London. You could make 
a living without service. ” 

‘‘ 1 am bound by loo many years ot faithful kindness to quit my 
master or my home at the Dragon,” said Tibbie. ‘‘JMay, that will not 
serve, good friend.” 

” Then what can be done?” asked Perronel, somewhat in despair. 
” There are the young sparks of the Temple. One or two of them 
are already beginning to cast eyes at her, so that 1 dare not let her 
help me carry home my b.asket, far less go alone. ’Tis not the 
wench’s fault. She shrinks from men’s eyes more than any maid I 
ever saw, but if she bide long wuth me, I wot not what may come of 
it. There be rulilers there who would not stick to carry her off I” 

Tibbie stood considering, and presently said, ” Mayhap the dean 
might aid thee in this matter. He is tree of hand and kind of heart, 
and belike he would dower the maid, and find an honest man to wed 
her. ’ ’ 

Perronel thought well of the suggestion, and decided that after 
the mass on All Souls’ Day, and the general visiting of the graves 
of kindred, she would send Aldonza home with Dennet, whom they 
were sure to meet in the Pardon Churchyard, since her mother as well 
as Abenali and Martin Fulfordlay there: and herself endeavor to see 
Dean Colet, who was sure to be at home, as he was hardly recovered 
from an attack ot the prevalent disorder. 

Then Tibbie escaped, and Perronel drew near to the party round 
the fire, where the divination of the burning of nuts was going on, 
but not successfully, since no pair hitherto put in w’ould keep to- 
gether. However, the next contribution was a snail, which had been 
captured on the wall, and was solemnly set to crawl on the hearth by 
Dennet, ” to see whether it •would trace a G or an H.” 

However the creature proved sullen or sleepy, and no jogging of 
hands, no enticing would induce it to crawl an inch, and the aider- 
man, taking his daughter on his knee, declared that it was a wise 
beast, who knew her hap was fixed. Moreover, it was tinre for the 
rere supper, for the serving-men with the ian terns would be coming 
for the young folk. 

London entertainments tor women or young people had to finish 
very early unless they had a strong escort to go home with, for the 
streets were tar from safe after dark. Giles’s great desire to convoy 
her home added to Perronel’s determination, and on All Souls’ 
Day, while knells ■w^ere ringing from every church in London, she 
roused Aldonza from her weeping devotions at her father’s grave, 
and led her to Dennet, who had just finished her round of prayers at 
the grave of the mother she had never known, under the protection 
ot her nurse, and two or three of the servants. The child who had 
thought little of her mother while her grandmother was alert, and 
supplied the tenderness and care she needed, was beginning to yearn 
after counsel and sympathy, and to wonder, as she told her beads, 
what might have been had that mother lived. She look Aldonza’s 
hand, and the two girls threaded their way out ot the crowded 


TKE AKMOUKEK’s PRENTICES. 151 

churchyard together, while Perronei betook herself to the deanery 
of St. Paul’s. 

Good Colei was always accessible to the meanest, but he had been 
very ill, and the porter had some doubts about troubling him resoect- 
ing the substantial young matron whose trim cap and bodice, and 
full petticoats showed no tokens of distress, but when she begged 
him to take in her message that she prayed the dean to listen to her 
touching the child of the old man who was slain on May Eve, he 
consented, and she was at once admitted to an inner chamber, where 
Colet, wrapped in a gown lined with lambskin, sat by the lire, look- 
ing so wan and feeble that it went to the good woman’s heart, and 
she began by an apology for troubling him. 

“ Heed not that, good dame,” said the dean, courteously, ” but 
sit thee down and let me hear of the poor child.” 

” Ah, reverend sir, would that she were still a child — ” and Per- 
ronel proceeded to tell her difficulties, adding that if the dean could 
of hia goodness promise one of the dowries which were yearly given 
to poor maidens of good character, she would inquire among her 
gossips for some one to marry the girl. She secretly hoped he would 
take the hint, and immediately ixrrtion Aldonza himself, perhaps 
likewise find the husband. And she was disappointed that he only 
promised to consider the matter and let her hear from him. She 
went back and told Tibbie that his device was naught; an old 
scholar with one foot in the grave knew less of women than even he 
did! 

However it was only tour days later that as Mrs. Randall was 
hanging out her collars to dry, there came up to her from the Tem- 
ple stairs a figure whom for a moment she hardly knew, so different 
was the long, black garb, and short gown of the lawyer’s clerk from 
the shabby old brown suit that all her endeavors had not been able 
to save from many a stain of printer’s ink. It was only as he ex- 
claimed, ” Good aunt, I am fain to see thee here!” that she an- 
swered, “What, thou Anibrose! What a fine fellow thou art! 
Truly 1 knew not thou wast of such good mien! Thou thrivest at 
Chelsea!” 

” Who would not thrive there?” said Ambrose. ” Nay, aunt, 
tarry a little, I have a message for thee that 1 would fain, give before 
we go in to Aldonza.” 

‘"From his reverence the dean? Hath he bethought himself of 
her?” 

” Ay, that hath he done,” said Ambrose. ” He is not the man to 
halt when good ma}' be done. What doth he do, since it seems thou 
hadst speech of him, but send for Sir Thomas More, then sitting at 
Westminster, to come and see him so soon as the court brake up, 
and 1 attended my master. They held council together, and by and 
by they sent for me to ask me of what conditions and breeding the 
maid was, and what 1 knew of her father?” 

” Will they wed her to thee? That were rarely good, so they gave 
thee some good office!” cried his aunt. 

Nay, nay,” said Ambrose. ” 1 have much to learn and under- 
stand ere I think of a wife— if ever. Nay! But when they had 
heard all i could tell them, they looked at one another, and the dean 


152 


THE AKMOUllEll'S PKEJS'TICES. 


said, ‘ The maid is no doubt of high blood in her own land— scarce 
a mate tor a London butcher or currier.’ 

“ ‘ It were matching an Arab mare with a costard monger’s colt,’ 
said my master, ‘ or Angelica with Ralph Roisterdoister. ’ ” 

“ I’d like to know what were better for the poor outlandish maid 
than to give her to some honest man,” put in Perronel. 

‘‘The end of it was,” said Ambrose, ‘‘that Sir Thomas said he 
was to be at the palace the next day, and he would strive to move 
the queen to take her country-woman into her service. Yea, and so 
he did, but though Queen Katharine was moved by hearing of a 
fatherless maid of Spain, and at first spake of taking her to wait on 
herself, yet when she heard the maid’s name, and that she was of 
Moorish blood, she would none of her. She said that heresy lurked 
in them all, and though Sir Thomas ottered that the dean, or the 
queen’s own chaplain should question heron the faith, it was all lost 
labor. I heard him tell the dean as much, and thus it is that they 
bade me come for thee and for the maid, take boat, and bring you 
down to Chelsea, where Sir Thomas will let her be bred up to wait 
on his little daughters till he can see what best may be done for 
her. 1 trow his spirit was moved by the queen’s hardness! 1 heard 
the dean mutter, ‘ Et Teniente ab Oi'ienteet Occiclente.’ ” 

Perronel looked alarmed. ‘‘The queen deemed her heretic in- 
grain! Ah! She is a good wench, and of kind conditiotis. 1 would 
have no ill befall her, but 1 am glad to be rid of her. Sir Thomas — 
he is a wise man, ay. and a married man, with maidens of his own, 
and he may have more wit in the business than the rest of his kind. 
Be the matter instant*?” 

‘‘ Methinks Sir Thomas would have it so, since this being a holy 
day, the courts be not sitting, and he is himself at home, so that he 
can present the maid to his lady. And that makes no small odds.” 

‘‘ Yea, but -what the lady is makes the greater odds to the maid, I 
trow,” said Perronel anxiously. 

‘‘ Fear not on that score. Dame Alice More is of kindly condi- 
tions, and will be good to any whom her lord commends to her; and 
as to the young ladies, never saw 1 any so sweet or so wise as the 
two elder ones, specially Mistress Margaret.” 

‘‘ Well-a-day! What must he must!” philosophically observed 
Perronel. ‘‘ Now 1 have my wish, 1 could mourn over it. 1 am 
loath to part with the wench; and my man, when he comes home, 
will make an outcry for his pretty Ally; but ’tis best so. Come, 
Alice, girl, bestir thyself. Here’s preferment for thee.” 

Aldonza raised her great soft eyes in slow wonder, and when she 
had heard what was to befall her, declared that she wanted no ad- 
vancement, and wished only to remain with ]\iother Perronel. Nay, 
she clung to the kind woman, beseching that she might not be sent 
away from the only motherly tenderness she had ever known, and 
declaring (hat she would work all day and all night rather than leave 
her; but the more reluctance she showed, the more determined was 
Perronel, and she could not but submit to her fate, only adding one 
more entreaty that she might take her jackdaw, which was now a 
spruce gray-headed bird. Perronel said it would be presun)ption in 
a waiting- woman, but Ambrose declared that at Chelsea there were all 
manner of beasts and birds, beloved by the children and by their fa- 


THE AHMOURER’S RRENTTCES, 


153 

ther himself, and that he believed the daw would be welcome. At 
any rate, if the lady ot the house objected to it, it could return with 
Mistress Randall. 

Perronel hurried the few preparations, being afraid that Giles 
might take advantage of the holiday to appear on the scene, and pres- 
ently Aldonza was sealed in the boat, making no more lamentations 
after she found that her fate was inevitable, but sitting silent, with 
downcast head, now and then brushing away a stray tear as it stole 
down under her long eyelashes. 

iVIeantime Ambrose, hoping to raise her spirits, talked to his aunt of 
the friendly ease and kindliness of the new home, where he was evi- 
dently as thoroughly happy as it was in his nature to be. He was 
inuch in the position of a barrister’s clerk, superior to that of the 
mere servants, but inferior to the young gentlemen of larger means, 
though not perhaps ot better birth, who had studied law regularly, 
and aspired to offices or to legal practice. 

But though Ambrose was ranked with the three or four other clerks, 
his functions had more relation to Sir Tliomas’s literary and diplo- 
matic avocations than his legal ones. From Lucas Hansen he had 
learned Dutch and Fiench, and he was thus available for copying 
and translating foreign correspondence. His knowledge of Latin 
and smattering of Greek enabled him to be employed in copying into 
a book some of the inestimable letters of Erasmus which arrived 
from time to time, and Sir Thomas promoted his desire to improve 
himself, and had requested Mr. Clements, the tutor of the children 
of the house, to give him weekly lessons in Latin and Greek. 

Sir Thomas had himself pointed out to him books calculated to 
settle his mind on the truth and catholicity of the Church, and had 
warned him against meddling with the fiery controversial tracts 
which, smuggled in often through Lucas’s means, had set his mind 
in commotion. And for the present at least beneath the shadow of 
the great man’s intelligent devotion, Ambrose’s restless spirit was 
tranquil. 

Ot course, he did not explain his state ot mind to his aunt, but 
she gathered enough to be w'ell content, and tried to encourage Al- 
donz.a, when at length they landed near Chelsea church, and Am- 
brose led the way to an extensive pleasaunce or park, full of elms 
and oaks, whose yellow leaves were floating like golden rain in the 
sunshine. 

Presently children’s voices guided them to a large chestnut tree. 
“ Lo you now, I hear IVIistress Meg’s voice, and where she is, his 
honor will ever be,” said Anibrose, 

And sure enough, among a group of five girls and one boy, all be- 
tween fourteen and nine years old, was the great lawyer, knocking 
down the chestnuts with a long pole, while the young ones flew 
about picking up the burrs from the grass, exclaiming joyously 
when they found a full one. 

Ambrose explained that of the young ladies, oqe was Mistress Mid- 
dleton, Lady More’s daughter by a former marriage, another kins- 
woman. Perrouel w'as for passing by unnoticed; but Ambrose 
knew belter; and Sir Thomas, leaning on the pole, called out, ” Ha, 
my Birkenholt, a forester born, knowst thou any mode of bringing 


154 THE aemoueer’s PHEXTICES. 

flown yonder chestnuts, which being the least within reach, seem in 
course the meetest of all.” 

” 1 would 1 were my brother, your honor,” said Ambrose, ‘‘ then 
would 1 climb the tree.” 

” Thou shouldst bring him one of these days,” said Sir Thomas. 
‘‘ But thou hast instead brought us a fair maid. See, Meg, yonder 
is the poor young girl who lost her father on 111 May Day. Lead 
her on and make hei good cheer, while 1 speak to this good dame.” 

Margaret More, a slender, dark-eyed girl of thirteen, wentjforward 
with a peculiar gentle grace to the stranger, saying, ” \velcome, 
sweet maid, 1 hope we shall make thee happy;” and seeing the 
mournful countenance, she not only took Aldonza's hand, but kissed 
her cheek. 

Sir Thomas had exchanged a word or two with Perronel, when 
there was a cry from the younger children, who had detected the 
wicker cage which Perronel was trying to keep in the background. 

” A daw! a daw!” was the cry. ” Is’t for us?” 

‘‘ Oh, mistress,” faltered Aldonza, “ ’tis mine— there was one who 
tamed it for me, and 1 promised ever to keep it, but if the good 
knight and lady forbid it, we will send it back.” 

“Nay, now, John, Cicely,” was Margaret saying, “ ’tis her own 
bird! Wot ye not our father will let us take naught of them that 
come to him? Yea, Al-don-za — is not that thy name? 1 am sure 
my father wull have thee keep it.” 

She led up Aldonza, making the request for her. Sir Thomas 
smiled. 

“ Keep thy bird? Nay, that thou shalt. Look at him, Meg, is he 
not in fit livery for a lawyer’s house? Mark his trim legs, sable 
doublet and hose, and gray hood — and see, he hath the very eye of 
a councilor seeking tor suits, as he looketh at the chestnuts John 
holdeth to him. 1 warrant he hath a tongue likewse. Canst plead 
for thy dinner, bird?” 

“ 1 love Giles!” uttered the black beak, to the contusion and in- 
dignation of Perronel. 

The perverse bird had heard Giles often dictate this avowal, but 
had entirely refused to repeat it, till, stimulated by the new sur- 
roundings, it had for the first time uttered it. 

“ Ah! thou foolish daw, crow that thou art! Had 1 known thou 
hadst such a word in thy beiik, I’d have wrung thj'^ neck sooner than 
have brought thee,” muttered Perronel. “ 1 had best take thee 
home without more ado.” 

It was too late, however, the children were delighted, and perfect- 
ly willing that Aldonza should own the bird, so they might hear it 
speak, and thus the introduction was over. Aldonza and her daw 
were conveyed to Dame Alice More, a stout, good-tempere3 wom- 
an, who had too many dependents about her house to concern her- 
self greatly about the introduction of another. 

And thus Aldonza was installed in the long, low, two-storied red 
house which w^as to be her place of home- like service. 


THE AHMOUHEK's I’RENTICES. 


155 


CHAPTER XX. 

CLOTH OF GOLD ON THE SEAMY SIDE. 

“ Then you lost 

The view of earthly glory ; men might say 
Till this time pomp was single; but now married 
To one above itself.” 

Shakespeare. 

Ip Giles Headley murmured at Aldonza’s removal, it was only to 
Perronel, and that discreet woman kept it to herself. 

In the summer of 1519 he was out of his apprenticeship, and 
though Dennet was only fifteen, it was not uncommon for brides lo 
be even younger. However, the autumn of that year was signalized 
b,y a fresh outbreak of the sweating sickness, apparently a sort of in- 
fluenza, and no festivities could be thought of. The king and queen 
kept at a safe distance from London, and escaped, so did Ihe in- 
mates of the pleasant House at Chelsea, but the cardinal, who, as 
lord chancellor, could not entirely absent himself from Westmin- 
ster, was four times attacked by it, aud Dean Colet, afar less robust 
man, had it three times, and sunk at last under it. Sir Thomas 
iilore went to see his beloved old friend, and knowing Ambrose’s de- 
votion, let the young man be his attendant. Nor could those wdio 
saw the good man ever forget his peaceful farewells, grieving only 
for the old mother who had lived with him in the deanery, and in 
the ninetieth year of her age, thus was bereaved of the last of her 
twenty-one children. For himself, he w'as thankful to be taken 
away from the evil times he alieady beheld threatening his beloved 
St. Paul’s, as well as the entire church, both in England and 
abroad; looking back with a sad, sweet smile to the happ}”^ Oxford 
days when he, with More and Erasmus 

“ Strained the watchful eye 
If chance the golden hours were nigh 
By youthful hope seen gleaming round her walls.” 

“ But,” said he, as he laid his hand in blessing for the last time on 
Ambrose’s head, ” let men sa^'^ wiiat they will, do thou cling fast to 
the Church, nor let thyself be swept awtiy. There are sure promises 
to her, and grace is with her to purify herself even though it be ob- 
scured for a time. Be not of little faith, but believe that Christ is 
with us in the ship, though He seem to be asleep.” 

He spoke as much to his friend as to Ihe youth, and there can be 
no doubt that this consideration was the restraining force with many 
who have been stigmatized as half-hearted reformers, because they 
loved truth, they feared to lose unity. 

He was a great loss, at that especial time, as a restraining power, 
trusted by the innovators and a personal fiiend both of king and 
cardinal, and his preaching and catechising were sorely missed at 
St. Paul’s. 

Tibbie Steelman, though thinking he did not go iar enough, de- 
plored him deeply; but Tibbie himself was laid by for many days, 


156 THE ARMOUKER’S PRENTICES. " 

The epidemic went through the Dragon Court, though some had it 
lightly, and only two young children actually died of it. It laid a 
heavy baud on Tibbie, and as his distaste for women rendered his 
den almost inaccessible to Bet Smallbones, who looked after most of 
the patients, Stephen Birkenholt, whose nursing capacities had been 
developed in Newgale, spent his spare hours in attending him, sat 
with him, in the evenings, slept on a pallet by his side, carried him 
his meals, and often administered them, and dually pulled him 
through the illness and its eflects, which left him much broken and 
never likely to be the same man again. 

Old i\Iistress Headley, who was already failing, did not have the 
actual disease severely, but she never again left her bed, and died 
just after Christmas, sinking slowly away with little pain, and her 
memory having failed from the first. 

Household affairs had thus slipped so gradually into Dennet’s 
hands that no change of government was perceptible, except that 
the keys hirng at the maiden’s gjrdle. She had grown out of the 
child during this winter of trouble, and was here, there, and every- 
where, the busy nurse and housewife, seldom pausing to laugh or 
play except with her father, and now and then to chat with her old 
friend and playfellow, Kit Smallbones. Her childish freedom of 
manner had given way to grave discretion, not to say primness in 
her behavior to her father’s guests, aud even the apprentices. It was, 
of course, the unconscious reaction of the maidenly spirit, aware 
that she had nothing but her own modesty to protect her. She was 
on a small scale, with no pretensions to beauty, but with a fresh, 
lionest, sensible ymung face, a clear skin, and dark eyes that could 
be very' merry when she would let them, and her whole air and 
dress were triraness itself, with an inclination to the choicest mate- 
rials permitted to an alderman’s daughter 

Things were going on so smoothly that the alderman was taken 
by surprise when all the good wives around began to press on him 
that it was incrrmbent on him to lose no limeinmariydng his daugh- 
ter to her cousin, if not before Lent, yet certainly in 'the Easter holi- 
days. 

Deunet looked very grave thereon. Was it not over soon after the 
loss of the good grandmother? And when her father said’ as the 
gossips had told him, that she and Giles need only walk quietly’’ 
aown some nrorning to St. Faith’s and plight their troth, she broke 
out into her giidish willful jnanner, “ Would she be married at all 
without a merry wedding? No, indeed! She would not have the 
thing done in a coriiei ! “What was the use of her being wedded, and 
having to consort with the tedious old wives instead of the merry 
weuches? Could she not guide the horrse, and rule the maids, and 
get in the stores, and hinder waste, and make the pasties, and brew 
the possets? Had her father found the crust hard, or missed his 
roasted crab, or had anyone blamed her for want of discretion? 
Nay', as to that she was like to be more discreet as she was, with 
only her good old father to please, than with a husband to plague 
her.” 

On the other hand Giles’s demeanor was rather that of one pre- 
pared for the inevitable than that of an eager bridegroom; and 
when orders began to pour in tor accouterments of unrivaled mag- 


THE ARMOUREK’s PRENTICES* 157 

nificence for tlie king and the gentlemen who were to accompany 
him to Ardres, there to meet the young King of France just after 
Whitsuntide, Dennet was the first to assure her father that there 
would be no time to think of weddings till all this was over, espe- 
cially as some of the establishment would have to be in attendance 
to repair casualties at the jousts. 

At this juncture there arrived on business Master Tiptofi, hus- 
band to Giles’s sister, bringing greetings from Mrs. Headley at Salis- 
bury, and inquiries whether the wedding was to take place at Whit- 
suntide, in which case she would hasten to be present, and to take 
charge of the household, tor w'hich her dear daughter was far loo 
young. Master Tiptoff showed a suspicious alacrity in undertaking 
the forwarding of his mother-m-law and her stuff. 

The faces of Master Headley and Tib Steelman were a sight, both 
having seen only too much of what the housewifery at Salisbury had 
been. The alderman decided on the spot that there could be no mar- 
riage till after the journey to Fiance, since Giles was certainly to go 
upon it: and lest j\lrs. Headley sfiould be starting on her journey, 
he said he should dispatch a special messenger to stay her. Giles, 
who had of course been longing for the splendid pageant, cheered 
up into gieat amiability, and volunteered to write to his mother that 
she hud best not think of comin^'till he sent word to her that mat- 
ters were forward. Even thus, Slaster Headley was somewhat inse- 
cure. He thought the dame quite capable of coming and taking 
possession of his house in his absence, and therefoie resolved upon 
staying at home to garrison it; but theie was then the further dilti- 
culty that Tibbie was in no condition to lake his place on the jour- 
ney. If the rheumatism seized his right arm, as it had done in the 
winter, he would be unable to drive a rivet, and there would be every 
danger of it, high summer though it were, for though the party 
would carry their own tent and bedding, the knights ana gentlemen 
would be certain to take all the best places, and they might be 
driven into a damp corner. Indeed it was not impossible that their 
tent itself might be seized, for many a noble or his attendants might 
think that beggarly artisans had no right to comforts which he had 
been too improvident to afford, especially if the alderman himself 
■were absent. 

Not only did IVIaster Headley really love his trusty foreman too 
well to expose him to such chances, but Tibbie knew too well that 
there were brutal young men to whom his contorted visage would 
be an incitement to contempt and outrage, and that if racked with 
rheumatism, he woula only be an incumbrance. There was nothing 
for it but to put Kit Rmallbones at the head of the party. His im- 
posing presence would keep oft wanton insults, but on the other 
hand, he had not the moral weight of authority po.ssessed by Tibbie, 
and though far from being a drunkard, he was not proof against a 
carouse, especially when out of reach of his Bet and of his master, 
and he was not by any means Tib’s equal in fine and delicate work- 
manship. But on the other hand, Tib pronounced that Stephen 
Birkenholt was already well skilled in chasing metal and the diffi- 
cult art of restoring inlaid work, and he showed some black and sil- 
ver armor that was in hand for the king which fully bore out his 
words, 


158 THE armoukek's prentices. 

“ Aud thou tliinkst Kit can rule the lads?” said the alderman, 
scarce willingly. 

” One of them at least can lule himself,” said Tibbie. “They 
have both been far more discreet since the fright they got on 111 May 
Day; and, as for Stephen, he hath seemed to me to have no eyes nor 
thought save for his woik of late.” 

“1 have marked him,” said the master, “and have nwveled 
what ailed the lad. His merry temper hath left him. 1 never hear 
him singing to keep time with his hammer, nor keeping the court 
in a roar with his gibes. 1 trust he is not running after tbe new 
doctrine of the hawkers and peddlers. His brother was inclined 
that wa 3 ^” 

“ There be worse folk than they, your worship,” protested Tib, 
but he did not pursue their defense, only adding, “ but ’tis not that 
which ails young Stephen. I would it were!” he sighed to him- 
self, inaudibly. 

“ Well,” said the good-natured»aWerman, “ it may be he misseth 
his brother. The boys will care for this raree-show more than thou 
or i, Tib! We’ve seen enough of them in our day, tfiough verily 
they say this is to surpass all that ever were beheld!” 

TThe question of who w'as to go had not been hitherto decided, 
and Giles aud Stephen were both so excited at being chosen that all 
low spirits and moodiness were dispelled, and the work which went 
on almost all night was merrily got through. The Dragon Court was 
in a perpetual commotion with knights, squires, and grooms, com- 
ing in with orders for new armor, or tor old to be furbished, and the 
t nt-makers, lorimers, mercers, and tailors had their hands equally 
full. These lengthening mornings heard the hammer ringing at 
sunrise, and in the final rush, Smallbones never went to bed at all. 
He said he should make it up in the wagon on the way to Dover. 
Some hinted that he preferred the clang of his hammer to the good 
advice his Bet lavished on him at every leisure moment to forewarn 
him against French wdne-pots. 

The alderman might be content with the party he sent forth, for 
Kit had hardlj' his equal in size, strength, and good humor. Giles 
had developed into a tall, comely young man, who had got rid of 
his country slouch, aud whose tail figure, light locks, and ruddy 
checks looked well in the new suit which gratified his love of finerj^ 
sober-hued as it needs must be, more than the old apprentices’ garb, 
to which Stephen was still bound, though it could not conceal his 
good mien, the bright sparkling dark ej'cs, crisp black hair, healthy 
brown skin, and lithe active figure. Giles had a stout roadster to 
ride on, the others were to travel in ther own wagon, furnished with 
tour powerful horses, which, it possible, they were to take to Calais, 
so as to be independent of hiring. Their needments, clothes, and 
tools, were packed in the wagon, with store of lances, etc. A car- 
ter and Will Wherry, who was selected as being supposed to be con 
versant with foreign tongms, were to attend on them; Smallbones, 
as senior journeyman, had the control of the party, and Giles had 
sulficientlj' learned subordination not to be likely to give himself 
dangerous airs of mastership. 

Dennet was astir early to see them off, and she had a little gift for 
each. She began with her oldest friend. “ See here, Kit,” she 


TTTE AEMOrUEll's PllENTICES. 359 

said, “ here’s a wallet to hold thy nails and rivets. TThat wilt thou 
Say to me for such a piece of stitcheryV” 

“Say, pretty mistress? Why this!” quoth the giant, and he 
picked her up by the slim waist in his great hands, and kissed her 
on the forehead. He had done the like many a time nine or ten 
years ago, and though blaster Headley langiied, Dennet was not one 
bit embarrassed, and turned to the next traveler. ‘‘ Thou art no 
more a prentice, Giles, and canst wear this in thy bonnet,” she said, 
holding out to him a short silver chain and medal of St. George and 
the Dragon. 

“ Thanks, gentle maid,” said Giles, taking the handsome gift a 
little .sheepishly. “ My bonnel will make a fair show,” and he bent 
down as she stood on the step, and saluted her lips, then began 
eagerly fastening the chain round his cap, as one delighted with the 
ornament. 

Stephen was some distance off. He had turned aside when she 
spoke to Giles, and was asking of Tibbie last instructions about the 
restoration of enamel: when he felt a touch on his arm, and saw 
Dennet standing by him. She looked up in his face, and held up a 
crimson silken purse, with S. B. embroidered on it within a w reath 
of oak and holly leaves. 

With the air that ever show'ed his gentle blood, Stephen put a 
knee to the ground, and kissed the tiugeis that held it to him, 
whereupon Dennet, a sudden burning blush overspreading her face 
under her tittle pointed hood, turned suddenly round and ran into 
the house. She was out again on the steps w’hen the wagon finally 
got under way, and as her eyes met Stephen’s, he doffed his flat cap 
with one hand, and laid the otlier on his heart, so that she knew 
where her purse had taken up its abode. 

Of the Field of the Cloth ot Gold not much need be said. To the 
end of the lives of the specUitors it was a tale of wonder. Indeed 
without that, the very sight ot the pavilions was a marvel in itself, 
the blue dome of Francis spangled in imitation of the sky, with sun, 
moon, and stars; and the feudal castle ot Henry, a thiee mouths’ 
work, each surrounded with tents of every color and pattern which 
fanc}' could devise, with the owner’s banners or pennons floating 
from the summit, and every creature, man, and horse, within the 
enchanted precincts, equally gorgeous. It was the brightest and the 
last full displa)'^ of magnificent pseudo chivaliy, and to Stephen’s 
dazzled eye seeing it beneath the slant rap of the setting sun ot 
June, it was a fair}' tale come to life. Hal Randall, who was in at- 
tendance on the cardinal, declared that it was a mere«urfeit ot jewels 
and gold and silver, and that a frieze jerkin or leathern coat was an 
absolute refreshment to the sight. He therefore spent all the time 
he was off duty in the forge far in the rear, where Smallbones and 
his party had very little but hard work, mending, whetting, fur- 
bishing, and even changing devices. Those six days of tilting when 
“ every man that stood showed like a mine,” kept the armorers in 
full occupation night and day, and only now and then could the 
youths try to make their way to some spot whence they could see 
the tournament. 

Smallbones was more excited by the report of fountains of good 
red and w’hite wines of all sorts flowing perpetually in the court of 


ICO THE AEMOURER’s PEEXTTCES. 

King Henr 5 ’^’s spleuflirl mock castle, but fortunately one gulp ’xas 
enough for an English palate nurtured on ale and mead, and he was 
disgusted at the heaps of country folk, meu-al arms, beggars and 
vagabonds of all kinds who swilled the liquor continually, and, in 
loathsome contrast to the external splendors, lay wallowing on the 
ground so thickly that it was sometimes hardly possible to move 
without treading on them. 

“ 1 stumbled over a dozen,” said the jester, as he strolled into the 
little staked inclosure that the' Dragon party had arranged round 
their tent for the prosecution of their labors, which were too impor- 
tant to all the champions not to be respected. “ Lance and sword 
have not laid so many low in the lists as have the doughty Baron 
Burgundy and the heady knight Ne.ssire Sherris Sack.” 

‘‘ Villain Verjuice and Varlet Vinegar is what Kit there calls 
them,” said Stephen, looking up from the work he w^as carrying on 
over a pan of glowing charcoal. 

” Yea,” said Smallboncs, intermitting his noisy operatioirs, ‘‘ and 
the more of swine be they that gorge themselves on it. 1 told .lack 
and Hob that 'twould be shame for English folk to drown them- 
selves like French frogs or Flemish hogs.” 

‘‘Hogs!” returned Kandall. ‘‘A decent Hamp.shire hog would 
scorn to be lodged as many a knight and squire and lady too is now, 
pigging it in styes and hovels ami hay-lofls by night, and pranking 
it by (lay with the best!” 

‘‘Sooth enough,” said Smallbones. ” Y'ea, we have had two 
knights and their squ'res, beseeching us for leave to sleep imder our 
wagon. Not an angel had the}'^ got among the four of them either, 
having all their year’s income on their backs, and more too. 1 trow 
they and their heirs will have good cause to remember this same Field 
of Gold.” 

‘‘ And what be’st thou doing, nevvy?” asked the jester. ” Thy 
trade seems as brisk as though red blood were flowing instc.-ad of 
red wine.” 

‘‘lam doing my part toward making the King into Hercules,” 
said Stephen, ” though verily the tailor hath more part therein than 
we have; but he must needs have a breastplate of scales of gold, and 
that by to morrow’s morn. As Ambrose would say, ‘ if he will be 
a pagan god, he should have what’s his name, the smith of the gods, 
to work for him.’ ” 

‘‘ 1 heard of that freak,” said the jester. ‘‘ There be a dozen tail- 
ors and all the queen’s tirewomen frizzling up a good piece of cloth’ 
of gold for the lion’s mane, covering a club with green ciamask with 
pricks, cutting out green velvet and gummed silk for his garland ! 
In sooth, these graces have left me so far behind in foolery that 1 
have not a jest left in my pouch! So here 1 be, while my lord car- 
dinal is shut up with Madame d’AngoulSme in the castle — the n^al old 
castle, mind you— doing the work, leaving the kings and queens to 
do their own fooling.” 

‘‘Have you spoken with the French king, Hal?” asked Small- 
bones, who had become a great crony of his, since the anxieties of 
May Eve. 

‘‘ So far as 1 may when I have no French, and he no English! 
He is a comely fellow, with a blithe tongue and a merry eye, 1 war- 


THE armourer’s PRENTICES. 


ICI 


rant you a chanticleer who will lose naught for lack of crowiug. 
He’ll crow louder than ever now he hath given our Harry a fall.” 

‘‘ No! hath he?” and Giles, Stephen, and Sinallboiies, all sus- 
pended their work to listen in concern. 

‘‘ Ay inarr}', hath he! The two took it into their royal noddles to 
try a fall, and wrestled together on the grass, when by some ill hap, 
this same Francis tripped up our Harry so that he was on the sward 
for a moment. He was up again forthwith, and in full heart for 
another round, when all the Frenchmen burst in gabbling, and 
though their king was willing to play the match out fairly, they 
wouldn’t let him, and my lord cardinal said something about leav- 
ing ill blood, whereat our king laughed and was content to leave it. 
As 1 told him, we have given the French falls enough to let them 
make much of this one.” 

” I hope he will yet give the mountscer a good shaking,” muttered 
Smallbones. 

‘‘How now, 'Will! Who’s that at the door? We are on his 
grace’s work and can touch none other in^u’s were it the King of 
France himself or his constable, who is finer still.” 

B}'- way of expressing ‘‘No admittance except on business,” 
Smallbones kept Will Wherry in charge of the door of his little ter- 
ritory, which having a mud wall on two sides, and a broad brook 
with quaking banks on a third, had been easily fenced on the fourth, 
so as to protect tent, wagon, horses, and work from the incursions 
of idlers. Will however answered, “ The gentleman saith he hath 
kindred here.” 

‘‘ Ay!” and there pushed in past the lad a tall lean form, with a gay 
but soiled short chiak over one shoulder, a suit of worn butl, a cap 
garnished with a dilapidated black and yellow feather, and a pair of 
gilt spurs. ‘‘ It this be as they told me, where Armorer Headley’s 
folk lodge— 1 have here a sort of a cousin. 'Yea, yonder’s the brave 
lad who had no qualms at tlie flash of a good Toledo in a knight’s 
fist. How now, ni}’ nevvy ! Is not my daughter’s nevvy — mine?” 

‘‘ Save your knighthood!” said Smallbones. ‘‘ W"ho would have 
looked to see you here. Sir John! Methought you were in the em- 
peror’s service!” 

‘‘A stout man-at-arms is of all services,” returned FuUord. 
“ I’m here with half Flanders to see this mighty show, and’ pick up 
a few more lusty Badgers at this encounter of old comrades. Is old 
Headley here?” 

” Nay, he is safe at home, where I would 1 were,” sighed Kit. 

‘‘ And you are m\' young master his nephew, who knew where to 
purvey me of good steel,” added Fulford, shaking Giles’s hand. 
‘‘ You are fain, doubtless, you youngsters, to be forth without the 
old man. Ha! and you’ve no lack of merry company.” 

Harry Randall’s first impulse had been to look to the right and 
left for the means of avoiding this encounter, but there was no es- 
cape, and he wirs moreover in most fantastic motley, arrayed in one 
of the many suits provided tor the occasion. It was in imitation of 
a parrot, brilliant gra.ss green velvet, touched here and there with 
scarlet, yellow, or blue. He had been only half disguised on the 
occasion of Fulford’s visit to his wife, and he perceived the start of 
6 


1G2 


THE armourer’s PRENTICES. 

recognition in the eyes of the Condottiere, so that he knew it would 
be vain to try to conceal i)is identity. 

“ You sought Stephen Birkenholt,” he said. “ And you’ve lit on 
something nearer, it so be jw’ll acknowledge the paraquito that 
your Perronel hath’mated with.” 

The Condottiere burst into a roar of laughter so violent that he 
had to lean against the mud wall, and hold his sides. ” Ha, ha! 
that 1 should be father-in-law to a fool!” and then he set off again. 
‘‘That the sober, dainty little wench should have wedded a fool! 
Ha! ha! ha!” 

‘‘ Sir,” cried Stephen hotly, ‘‘1 would have you to know that 
mine uncle here. Master Harry Randall, is a j'eoman of good birth, and 
that he undertook his present part to support your own father and 
child! He thinks you are the last who should jeer at and insult 
him!” 

‘‘ Stephen is right,” said Giles. ‘‘ This is my kinsman’s tent, and 
no man shall say a word against Master Harry Randall therein.” 

‘‘ Well crowed, my joung London game birds,” returned Ful- 
ford, coolly. ‘‘ I meant no disrespect to the gentleman in green. 
Nay, 1 am mightily beholden to him for acting his part out and 
taking on himself that would scarce befit a gentleman of a company 
— impedimenta, as we used to say in the grammar school. How does 
the old man? — I must find some token to send him.” 

‘‘ He is beyond the reach of all tokens from you save prayers and 
masses,” returned Randall, gIavel3^ 

‘‘ Ay? You say not so? Old gaffer dead?” And when the sol- 
dier was told how the feeble thread of life had been snapped by the 
shock of joy on his coming, a fit of compunction and sorrow seized 
him. He covered his face with his hands and wept with a loudness 
of grief that surprised and touclied his hearers; and presently began 
to bemoan himself that he had hardl}”^ a mark in ids purse to pay for 
a mass, but therewith he proceeded to erect before him the cross hilt 
of poor Abenali’s sword, and to vow thereupon that the first spoil 
and the first ransom that it should please the saints to send him 
should be entirely spent in masses for the soul of ]\Iartin Fulford. 
This tribute apparently stilled both grief and remorse, for looking 
up at the grotesque figure of Randall, he said, ” Metliought they 
told me, master son, that you were in the right quarters for beads 
and masses and all that gear— a varlet of blaster Butcher, Cardinal’s, 
or the like— but mayhap ’twas part of your fooling.” 

‘‘ Not so,” replied Randall. ‘‘ ’Tis to the cardinal that 1 belong,” 
holding out his sleeve, where the scarlet hat was neatly worked, 
‘‘ and i’ll brook no word against his honor.” 

‘‘ Ho! ho! Maybe you looked to have the hat on your own head,” 
quoth Fulford, waxing familiar, ‘‘ if your master comes to be Pope 
after his owu reckoning. Why, I’ve known a cardinal get the scarlet 
because an ape had danced on the root with him in his arms.” 

‘‘ You forget! I’m a wedded man,” said Randall, who certainly, 
in private life, had much less of the buffoon about him than liis 
father-in-law. 

‘‘ Impedimenium again,” whistled the knight. ‘‘ Put a halter 
round her neck and sell her for a pot of beer.” 

‘‘ I’d rather put a halter round my own neck tor good and all,” 


363 


THE AUMOTKEh’s PKENTICES. 

said Hal, his face reddening; but among other accomplishments of 
his position, he had learned to keep his temper, however indignant 
he felt. 

“ Well — she’s a knight’s daughter, and preferments will be 
plenty. Thou’lt make me captain of the Pope’s Guard, fair son— 
there's no post i should like better. Or 1 might put up with an 
Italian earldom or the like. Honor would become me quite as well as 
that old fellow, Prosper Colonua, and the Badgers would well be- 
come the Pope’s scarlet and yellow liveries.” 

The Badgers, it appeared, were in camp not far from Gravelines, 
whence the emperor was watching the conference between his uncle- 
in-law and his chief enemy, and thence Fulfoid, who had a good 
many French acquaintances, having once served under Francis 1., . 
had come over to see the sport. Moreover, he contrived to attach 
himself to the armorer’s party, in a manner that either Alderman 
Headley himself, or Tibbie Steelman, would effectually have pre- 
vented; but which Kit Smallbones had not sufficient moral weight 
to prevent, even it he had had a greater dislike to being treated as a 
boon companion by a knight who had seen the world, could appre- 
ciate good ale, and tell all manner of tales of his e.xperiences. 

So the odd sort of kindred that the captain chose to claim with 
Stephen Birkenholt was allowed, and in right of it, he was permit- 
ted to sleep in the wagon, and thereupon his big raw-boned charger 
was found sharing the fodder of the plump broad-backed cart horses, 
while he himself, whenever sport was not going forward for him, or 
■w'ork for the armorers, sat discussing with Kit the merits or demerits 
of the liquors of all nations either in their own court or in some of 
the numerous drinking-booths that had sprung up around. 

To no one was this arrangement so distasteful as to QuipsomeHal, 
who felt himself in some sort the occasion of the intrusion, and )'et 
was quite unable to prevent it, while everything he said was treated 
as a joke by his unwelcome father-in-law. It was a coarse time, 
and VYolsey’s was not a refined or spiritual establishment, but it Wiis 
decorous, and Bandall had such an affection and respect for the in- 
nocence of his sister’s young son, that he could not bear to have him 
exposed to tlie company of one habituated to the licentiousness of 
the mercenary soldier. At first the jester hoped to remove the lads 
from the d-mger, tor the brief remainder of their stay, by making 
double exertion to obtain places for them at any diversion which 
might be going on when their day’s work was ended, and of these, 
of course, there was a wMde choice, subordinate to the magnificent 
masking of the kings and queens. On the last midsummer evening, 
wdiile their majesties were taking leave of one another, a company 
of strolling players was exhioitiug in an extempore theater, and here 
Hal incited both the youths to obtain seats. It was one of the ordi- 
nar}^ and frequent topics ot that, as of all other times, and the dumb 
show and gestures were far more effective than the words, so that 
even those who did not understand the language of the comedians, 
who seemed to be Italians, could enter into it, especially as it was 
interspersed with very expressive songs. 

An old baron insists on betrothing his dauglder and heiress to her 
kinsman freshly knighted. She is reluctant, weeps, and is threat- 
ened, singing aftervvard her despair (of course she really was a 


164 


THE AKMOUKEll’s PREJS'TICES. 


black-eyed boy). That soug was followed by a still nioie despairing 
one troin the baron’s squire, and a tender interview between them 
followed. 

Then came discovery, the baron descending as a thunderbolt, the 
banishment of the squire, the lady driven at last to w'ed the young 
knight, her weeping and bewailing heiself under his ill-treatment, 
which extended to pulling her about by the hair, the return of the 
lover, notified by a song behind the scenes, a dangerously affection- 
ate meeting, interrupted by the husband, a fierce clashing of sw^ords, 
mutual slaughter by the two gentlemen, and the lady dying of grief 
on the top of her lover. 

Such was the argument of this tragedy, which Giles Headley pro- 
. nounced to be ver}'^ drearj^ pastime, indeed he was amusing himself 
with an exchange of comfits with a youth wiio sat next him all the 
time — for he had forma Stephen utterly deaf to aught but the trage- 
dy, following every gesture with eager eyes, lips quivering, and eyes 
filling at the strains of the love songs, though they were in their 
native Italian, of wiiich he understood not a word. He rose up 
with a heavy groan when all was over, as if not yet disenchanted, 
and hardly answered wiien his uncle spoke to him afterw^ard. It 
w^as to ask whether the Dragon party were to return at once to Lon- 
don, or to accompany the court to Gravelines, where, it had just 
been announced, the king intended to pay a visit to his nephew, the 
emperor. 

Keither Stephen nor Giles knew, but when they reached their own 
quarters they found that Smallbones had recei\ed an intimation that 
there might be jousts, and that the offices of the aiiuorers would be 
required. He was ver}' busy packing up his tools, but loudly hila- 
rious, and Sir John Fulford, with a flask of wine beside him, was 
swaggering and shouting orders to the men as though he were the 
head of the expedition. 

Revelations come in strange ways. Perhaps that Italian play 
might be called Galeotto to Stephen Birkenholt. It affected him all 
the more because he was not distracted by the dialogue, but was 
only powerfully touched by the music, and in the gestures of the 
lovers felt all the force of sympathy. It was to him like a kind of 
prophetic mirror, revealing to him the true meaning of all he had 
ever felt for Demiet Headley, and of his vexation and impatience at 
seeing her bestowed upon a dull and indiffeient lout like her kins- 
man, who not only was not good enough tor her, but did not even 
love her or accept her as anything but his title to the Dragon Court. 
He now thrilled and tingled from head to foot with the perception 
that all (his meant love — love to Dennet; and in every act of the 
drama he beheld only himself, Giles, and Dennet. Watching at flrst 
with a sweet fascination, his feelings changed, now to strong yearn- 
ing, now to hot wrath, and then to horror and dismay. In Ids 
troubled sleep after the spectacle, he identified himself with the 
lover, sung, wooed, and struggled in his person, woke with a start 
of relief, to find Giles snoring salely beside him, and the watch-dog 
on his chest instead of an expiring laeiy. He had not made unholy 
love to sweet Dennet nor imperiled her good name, nor slain his 
comrade. Nor was she yet wedded to that oaf, Giles! But she 
would be in a few weeks, and then! How was he to brook the 


THE AKMOURER’s PREHTICES. 165 

sight, chained as he was to the Dragon Court— see Giles lord it over 
her, and all ot them, see her missing the love that was burning for 
her elsewhere. Stephen lost his boyhood on that evening, and though 
force of habit kept him like himselt outwardly, he never was alone, 
without feeling dazed, and torn in every direction at once. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

SWORD OR SMITHY. 

“ Darest thou be so valiant as to play the coward with thy indenture, and 
to show it a fair pair of heels and rim from it?”— S hakespeare. 

Tidings came forth on the parting from the French king that the 
English court was about to move to Gravelines to pay a visit to the 
emperor and his aunt, the Duchess of Savoy. As it was hoped that 
jousts might make part of the entertainment, the attendance of the 
Dragon party was required. Giles was unfeignedly delighted at this 
extension ot holiday, Stephen felt that it deferred the day — would it 
be ot strange joy or pain? — of standing face to face with Dennet, 
and even Kit had come to tolerate foreign parts more with Sir John 
Fulford to show him the way to the best Flemish ale! 

The knight took upon himself the conduct of the Dragons. He 
understood how to lead them by routes where all provisions and ale 
had not been consumed, and he knew how to swagger and threaten 
so as to obtain the best of liquor and provisions at each kermme—'sX 
least so he said, though it might be doubted whether the Flemings 
might not have been more willing to yield up their stores to Kit’s 
open, honest face and tree hand. 

However, Fulford seemed to consider himself one with the party, 
and he beguiled the way by tales of the doings of the Badgers in 
Italy and Savoy, which were listened to with avidity by the lads, 
distracting Stephen from the pain at his heart, and filling both with 
excitement. They .were to have the honor of seeing the Badgers at 
Gravelines, where they were encamped outside the city to seive as a 
guard to the great inclosure that was being made of canvas stretched 
on the masts of ships to mark out the space tor a great banquet and 
dance. 

The weather broke however just as Henry, his wife and his sister, 
entered Gravelines; it rained pertinaciously, a tempestuous wind 
blew down the erection, and as there was no more time to set it up 
again, the sports necessarily took place in the castle and town hall. 
There was no occasion for the exercise of the armorer’s craft, and as 
Charles had forbidden the concourse ot all save invited guests, 
everything was comparatively quiet and dull, though the entertain- 
ment was on the most liberal scale. Lodgings were provided in the 
city at the emperor’s expense, and wherever an Englishman was 
quartered each night, the imperial officers brought a cast of fine 
manchet bread, two great silver pots with wine, a pound of sugar, 
white and yellow candles, and a torch. As Randall said, Charles 
gave so.id pudding where Francis gave empty praise. 

Smallbones and the two youths had very little to do, save to con- 
sume these provisions and accept the hospitality freely offered to 


166 


THE AH.MOUKEK’S TRENTICES. 

them at the camp of the Badgers, where Smallbones and the Ancient 
of the troop sat fraternizing over big flagons of Flemish ale, which 
did not visibl}’^ intoxicate the honest smith, but kept him in the dull 
and drowsy state which was his idea of the dolcefar niente of a holi- 
day. Meanwhile the two youths were made much of by the war- 
riors, Stephen’s dexterity with the bow and back-sword were shown 
off and lauded, Giles’s strength was praised, and all manner of new 
feats were taught them, all manner of stories told them, and the 
shrinking of well-trained jmung citizens from these lawless men “ full 
ot strange oaths and bearded like the pard,” and some very trucu- 
lent-looking, had given way to judicious flattery, and to the attrac- 
tions of adventure and of a free life, where wealth and honor waited 
the bold. 

Stephen was told that the gentleman in him was visible, that he 
ought to disdain the flat cap and blue gown, that here w^as his oppor- 
tunity, and that among the Badgers he would soon be rich, famous, 
glorious, .and wonder (hat he had ever toler.ated the greasy mechan- 
ical life of a base burgher. Respect to his oatlis to his master — Sir 
John laughed the scruple to scorn; n.ay, it he w'ere so tender, he 
could buy his absolution the first time he had his pouch full of gold. 

“ What shall 1 do?” was the cry of Stephen’s heart. ” ]\ly honor 
and my oath they bring me. She would weep. My master would 
deem me ungrateful, Ambrose break his heart. And yet who knows 
but 1 should do worse if 1 sta3’’ed, 1 shall break my own heart it 1 
do. 1 shall not see— i may forget. No, no, never! but at least 1 
shall never know the moment when the lubber takes the jewel he 
knows not how to prize! M.arches— sieges— there shall I quell this 
wild beating! 1 m.ay die there. At least it will allay this present 
frenzy of my blood.” 

And he listened when Fultoid and Will Marden, a young English 
man-.at-arms with whom he had made friends, concerted liow he 
should meet them at an inn— the sign of the Seven Stars — in Grave- 
lines, .and there exchange his prentice’s garb for the buff co.at and 
corslet of a Badger, with the Austrian black and.yellow scarf. He 
listened, but he had not promised. The sense of duty to his master, 
and honor to his w’ord, always recuiTed like “first thoughts,” 
though the longing to escape, the restlessness ot hopeless love, the 
youthful ejigerncss for adventure and freedom, swept it aside ag.ain 
and again. 

He had not seen his uncle since the evening ot the comedy, for 
H.al had traveled in the cardinal’s suite, and the amusements being 
all within doors, jesters were much in request, as indeed Charles V. 
was curious in fools, and generally had at least three in attendance, 
Stephen, moreover, always shrunk from his uncle when acting pro- 
fessionally. He had learned to love and (isteem the man during his 
troubles, brrt this only rendered the sight of his buffoonery more dis- 
tressing, and as Randall h,ad not provided himself with his home 
suit, they were the more cut oft from one another. Thus there was 
all the less to counteract or show the fallacy of Fulford’s recruiting 
blandishments. 

The day had come on the evening of which Stephen was to meet 
Pulford .and JMarden at the Seven Stars and grve them his firral 
answer, in time to allow of their smuggling him out of the city, and 


THE ARMOUHEr’s PRENTICES. IG? 

sending liim away into the country, since Smallbones would cer- 
tainly suspect him to be in the camp, and as he was still an apjiren- 
tice, it was possible, though not probable, that the town magistrates 
might be incited to make search on inquiry, as thw were very jeal- 
ous of the luring away of their appi entices by the Free Companies, 
and moreover his uncle might move the cardinal and the king to 
cause measures to be taken for his recovery. 

Ill at ease, Stephen wandeied away from the hostel where Small- 
bones was entertaining his friend the Ancient. He had not gone far 
down the street when a familiar figure met his eye, no other than 
that of Lucas Hansen, his brother’s old master, walking along with 
a pack on his back. Grown as Stephen was, the old man’s recogni- 
tion was as rapid as his own, and there was a clasp of tne hand, an 
exchange of greeting, while Lucas eagerly asked after his dear pupil 
Ambrose. 

“ Come in hither, and we can speak more at ease,” said Lucas, 
leading the way up the common staircase ot a tall house, whose 
upper stories overhung the street. Up and up, Lucas led the way, 
to a room in the high peaked roof, looking out at the back. Here 
Stephen recognized a press, but it was not at work, only a young 
friar was sitting there engaged in sewing up sheets so as to form a 
pamphlet. Lucas spoke to him in Flemish to explain his own re- 
turn with the English prentice. 

” Dost thou dwell here, sir?” asked Stephen. ” I thought Rotter- 
dam was thine home.” 

‘‘ Yea,” said Lucas, ” so it be, but 1 am sojourning herefo aid in 
bearing about the seed of the Gospel, for which 1 walk tlirough 
these lands of ours. But tell me of thy brother, and ot the little 
Moorish maiden?” 

Steplieu replied with an account of both Ambrose and Aldonza, 
and likewise of Tibbie Steelman, explaining how ill he had been in 
the winter, and that therefore he could not be with the party. 

” I would 1 had a token to send him,” said Lucas; ‘‘ but I have 
naught here that is not either in the Dutch or the French, and 
neither of those tongues doth he understand. But thy hrolher, the 
good Ambrose, can read the Dutch. Wilt thou carry him from me 
this fresh tractate, showing how many there be that make light of 
the Apostle Paul’s words not to do evil that good may come?” 

Stephen had been hearing rather listlessly, thinking how little the 
good man suspected how doubtful it was that he should bear mes- 
sages to Ambrose. Now on that sore spot in his conscience that 
sentence darted like an arrow, the shaft finding ” mark the archer 
little meant,” and with a start, not lost on Lucas, he exclaimed 
‘‘ Saith the holy Saint Paul that?” 

” Assuredly, my son. Brother Cornells, who is one whose eyes 
have been opened, can show you the very words, it thou hast any 
Latin.” 

Perhaps to gain time, Stephen assented, and the young friar, with 
a somewhat inquisitive look, presently brought him the sentence, 
” Et nonfaciamus mala ut veniant bona.” 

Stephen’s Latin was not very fresh, and he hardly comprehended 
the words, but he stood gazing with a frown of distress on his brow, 
which made Lucas say, ‘‘ My son, thou art sorely bestead. Is there 


1G8 


THE armourer’s PRENTICES. 


aught in which a plain ohl man can lielp thee, for thy brother’s 
sake? Speak freely. Brother Cornelis knows not a word of En- 
glish. Dost thon owe aught to any man?” 

” Nay, nay — not that,” said Stephen, drawn in his trouble and 
perple.xity to open his heart to this incongruous confidant, ” hut, sir, 
which be the worst, to break my pledge to my master, or to run into 
a trial which— -which will last from day to day, and may be too 
much tor me — yea, and for another — at last.” 

The color, the trembling of limb, the passion of voice, revealed 
enough to Lucas to make him say, in the voice of one who, dried up 
as he was, had once proved the trial, “ ’Tis love, thou wouldst say?” 

” Ay, sir,” said Stephen, turning away, but in another 'monient 
bursting forth, ‘‘ 1 love my master’s daughter, and she is to wed her 
cousin, who takes her as her father’s chattel! 1 wist not why the 
w'orld had grown dark to me till I saw a comedy at Ardres, where 
as in a mirror ’(was all set forth — yea, and how love was too strong 
for him and for her, and how shame and death came thereof.” 

” Those players are good for naught but to wake the passions!” 
muttered Lucas. 

” Nay, methought they warned me,” said Stephen. ” For, sir,” 
— he hid his burning face in his hands as he leaned on the back of 
a chair — ” 1 wot that she has ever liked me better, far better than 
him. And scarce a night have 1 closed an eye without dreaming it 
all, and finding myself bringing evil on her, till 1 deemed ’twere 
better 1 never saw her more, and left her to think of me as a for- 
sworn runagate rather than see her wedded only to be flouted, and 
maybe do worse.” 

” Poor lad!” said Lucas, “ and what wouldst thou do?” 

” 1 had not pledged myself— but said I would consider of — service 
among Fulford’s troop,” faltered Stephen. 

Among those ruffians — godless, lawless men!” exclaimed Lucas. 

‘‘ Yea, i know what you would say,” returned Stephen, “ but 
they are brave men, better than you deem, sir.” 

‘‘Were they angels or saints,” said Lucas, rallying his forces, 
“ thou hast nu right to join them. Thine uath fetters thee. Thou 
hast no power to break it and do a sure and certain evil to avoid one 
that may never befall! How know'est thou how it may be? Nay, 
if the trial seemed to thee too great, thine apprenticeship will soon 
be at an end.” 

“ Not tor two years.” 

‘‘ Or thy master, if thou speakest the whole truth, would transfer 
thine indentures. He is a good man, and if it be as thou sayest, 
would not see his child tried too sorely. God will make a way for 
the tempted to escape. They need not take the devil’s way.” 

‘‘ Sir,” said Stephen, lifting up his head, ‘‘1 thank you. This 
Avas what 1 needed. 1 will tell Sir John Fulford that 1 ought never 
to have heeded him.” 

‘‘ Must thou see him again?” 

‘‘ 1 must. I am to give him his answer at the Seven Stars. But 
fear not me. Master Lucas, he shall not lead me away.” And 
Stephen took i grateful leave of the little Dutchman, and charged 
himself with more massages tor Ambrose and Tibbie than his over- 
burdened spirit was likely to retain. 


THE armourer’s PREXTICES. 


1G9 


Lucas went down the stairs with him, and as a sudden thought, 
said at the foot of them, “ ’Tis at the Seven Stars thou meetest this 
knight. Take an old man’s counsel. Taste no liquor there.” 

” 1 am no ale bibber,” said Stephen. 

‘‘ Nay, 1 deemed thee none — but heed my words — captains of 
landsknechts in kermesnes are scarce to be trusted. Taste not.” 

Stephen gave a sort of laugh at the precaution, and shook himself 
loose. It was still an hour to the time of meeting, and the Ave-bell 
was ringing. A church door stood open, and for the first timh since 
he had been at Gravelines, he felt that there would be the calm he 
needed to adjust the conflict of his spirits, and comprehend the new 
situation, or rather the recurrence to the old one. lie seemed to 
have recovered his former self, and to he able to perceive that things 
might go on as before, and his heart really leaped at finding he might 
return to the sight of Dennet and Ambrose and all he loved. 

His wishes were really that way, and Fulford’s allurements had 
become very shadowy when he made his way to the Seven Stars, 
whose vine-covered window allowed many loud voices and fumes 
of beer and wine to escape into the summer evening air. 

The room was perhaps cleaner than an English one woirld 
have been, but it was reeking with heat and odors, and the 
forest-bred youth was unwilling to enter, but Fulford and two 
or three Badgers greeted him noisily and called on him to partake 
of the supper they had already prepared. 

“No, sir knight, I thank you,” said Stephen. ” 1 am bound for 
my quarters, 1 came but to thank you for your goodness to me, 
and to bid you farewell.” 

” And how as to thy pledge to join us, young man?” demanded 
Fulford sternly. 

” I gave no pledge,” said Stephen. ” I said 1 would consider 
of it.” 

“ Faint-hearted! ha! ha!” and the English Badgers translated the 
word to the Germans, and set them shouting with derision. 

”1 am not faint-hearted,” said Stephen; ‘‘but 1 will not break 
mine oath to my master.” 

‘‘ And thine oath to me? Ha!” said Fulford. 

‘‘ I swore you no oath, 1 gave you no word,” said Stephen. 

” Ha! Thou darest give me the lie, base apprentice! Take that!” 

And therewith he struck Stephen a crushing blow on the head, 
which felled him to the ground. The host and all the company, 
used to pot-house quarrels, and perhaps playing into his hands, 
took little heed; Stephen was dragged inseiisible into another room, 
and there the Badgers began hastily to divest him of his prentice’s 
gown, and draw his arms into a buff coat. Fulford had really been 
struck with his bravery, and knew beside that his skill in the 
armorer’s craftt would be valuable, so that it had been determined 
beforehand that he should— by fair means or foul — leave the Seven 
Stars a Badger. 

” By all the powers of hell, you have struck too hard, sir. He 
is sped,” said Harden anxiously. 

‘‘ Ass! tut!” said Fulford. ‘‘ Only enough to daze him till he bo 
safe in our quarters — and for that the sooner the better. Here, call 


170 THE ARMOUIlEIi’s PUEXTICES. 

Anton to take his heels. We’ll get him torth now as a fellow of our 
own.” 

‘‘Hark! What’s that?” 

“Gentlemen,” said the host hurrying in, “here he some of the 
gentlemen of the English cardinal, calling for a nephew of one of 
them, who they say is in this house.” 

With an imprecation, Enlford denied all connection w'ith gentle- 
men of the cardinal; hut there was evidently an invasion, and in 
another moment several powerful-looking men in the crimson and 
hlack velvet of Wolsey’s train, had forced their way into the cham- 
her, and the foremost, seeing Stephen’s condition at a glance, ex- 
claimed loudly, “ Thou villain! traitor! kidnapper! This is thy 
work!” 

“ Ha! ha!” shouted Fulford, “whom have we here? The cardi- 
nal’s fool a masking! Treat us to a caper, quipsome sir?” 

“ I’m more like to treat you to the gyves,” returned Randall. 
“ Aw^ay with you! T he watch are at hand. Were it not for my 
wife’s sake, they should hear youoff to the city jail, and the emperor 
should know how you fill your ranks.” 

It was quite true. The city guard w^ere entering at the street door, 
and the host hurried Fulford and his men, sw'earing and raging, out 
at a hack door provided for such emergencies. Stephen was he- 
ginning to recover hy this time. His uncle knelt dowui, look his head 
bn his shoulder, and Lucas -washed off the Dlood and administered a 
drop of wine. His first words were: “ W'as it Giles? Where is 
she?” 

“Still going over the play!” thought Lucas. “Ray, nay, lad. 
’Twas one of the soldiers who played thee this scurv}"^ trick! All’s 
well now. Thou wilt soon he able to quit this place.” 

“ 1 remember now,” said Stephen, “Sir John said 1 gave him 
the lie when 1 said 1 had given no pledge. But 1 had not!” 

“ Thou hast been a brave fellow, and better broken head than 
broken troth,” said his uncle. 

“ But how came you here?’ asked Stephen, “ in the nick of time?” 

It was explained that Lucas, not doubting Stephen’s resolution, 
but quite aware of the tricks of landsknecht captains with promising 
recruits in view, had gone first in search of Smallbones, but had 
found him and the Ancient so deeply engaged in potations from the 
liberal supply of the emperor to all the English guests, that there 
was no getting him apart, and he was too much muddled to com- 
prehend if he could have been spoken with. 

Lucas then in desperation betook himself to the convent where 
Wolsey was magnificently lodged. Ill IVIay Day had made him, as 
well as others, well acquainted with the relationship between Stephen 
and Randall, though he was not aware of thefurthei connection with 
Fulford. He hoped, even if unable to see Randall, to obtain help 
on behalf of an English lad in dangei, and happily he arrived at a 
moment when State affairs were going on, and Randall was refresh- 
ing himself by a stroll in the cloister. When Lucas had made him 
understand the situation, his dismay was only equaled by his prompt- 
itude. He easily obtained the loan of one of the splendid suits of 
scarlet and crimson, guarded with black velvet a hand broad, which 
were worn by the cardinal s secular attendants— for he was well 


THK armourer’s PRENTICES. 171 

known by this time in the household to be very far from an absolute 
tool, and indeed bad done many a good turn to his comrades. 
Several of the gentlemen, indignant at the threatened outrage on a 
young Englishman, and esteeming the craftsmen of the Dragon, 
volunteered to accompanj' him, and others warned the watch. 

There was some difficulty still, for the burgher guards, coming 
up puffing and blowing, wanted to carry off the victim and keep him 
in ward to give evidence against the mercenaries, whom they regard- 
ed as a sort of wolves, so that even the emperor never durst quarter 
them within one of the cities. The drawm swords of Randall’s 
friends however settled that matter and gtephen, though still dizzy, 
was able to walk. Thus leaning on his uncle, he was escorted back 
to the hostel. 

“ The villain!” the jester said on the way, “ 1 mistrusted him, but 
1 never thought he would have abused our kindied in this fashion. 
1 would fain have come down to look after thee, nevvy, but these 
kings and queens are troublesome folk. The emperor— he is a pale, 
shame-faced, solemn lad. Maybe he museth, but he hath scarce a 
word to say for himself. Our Hal tried clapping on the shoulder, 
calling him fair coz, and the like, in his hearty fashion. Behold, 
what doth he but turn round with such a look about the long lip of 
him as my Lord of Buckingham might have if his scullion made 
free with him. His aunt, the Duchess of Savoy, is a merry dame, 
and a wise! She and our king can talk by the ell, but as for the 
emperor, he speaketh to none wullingly save Queen Katharine, who 
is of his own stiff Spanisn humor, and he hath eyes for none save 
Queen Mary, who would have been his empress had high folk held 
to their woril. And with so tongue-tied a host, and the rain with- 
out, what had the poor things to do by way of disporting themselves 
with but a show of fools. I’ve had to ^ through everv' trick and 
quip 1 learned when 1 was with old Nat Fire-eater. And I’m stifter 
in the joints and w^eightier in the heft than 1 was in those days when 
1 slept in the fields, and fasted more than ever Holy Church meant! 
But, heigh ho! 1 ought to be supple enough after the practice of 
these three days. Moreover, if it could loose a fool’s tongue to have 
a king and queen for interpreters, I had them — for there were our 
Harry and Moll catching at every gibe as fast as my brain could 
hatch it, and rendering it into French as best they might, carping 
and quibblinjr the while underhand at one another’s renderings, and 
the emperor sitting by in his black velvet, smiling about as much 
as a felon at the hangman’s jests. All his poor fools moreover, and 
the king’s own, ready to gnaw their baubles for envy! That was 
the only sport 1 had! I’m w'earier than if I’d been plying Small- 
bones’s biggest hammer. The w’orst of it is that my lord cardinal 
is to stay behind and go on to Bruges as embassador, and 1 with 
him, so thou must bear my greetings to thy uaunt, and tey her I’m 
keeping from picking up a word of French or Flemish lest this 
same Charles should take a fancy to me and ask me of my master, 
who would give away his own head to get the Pope’s fool’s cap.” 

“ Werda! Qiiivald?” asked a voice, and the summer twilight 
revealed two fijrures with cloaks held high and drooping Spanish 
hats; one of whom, a slender, youthful fi^gure, so far as could be 
seen under his cloak, made inquiries, first in I’lemish, then in 


172 THE armourer’s prentices. 

French, as lo what ailed the youth. Lucas replied in the former 
tongue, and one of the Englishmen could speak French. The gen- 
tleman seemed much concerned, asked if the watch had been at 
hand, and desired I.ucas to assure the young Englishman that the 
emperor would be much distressed at the tidings, asked where he 
was lodged, and passed on. 

“ Ah ha!” muttered the jester, ‘‘ if my ears deceive me now. I’ll 
never trust them again! Mynheer Charles knows a few more tricks 
than he is fain to show oft in royal company. Come on, Stevie! 
I’ll see thee to thy bed. Old Kit is too lar gone to ask after thee. 
In sooth, 1 trow that my sweet futher-in-law set his ancient to nail 
him to the wMne pot. And blaster Giles 1 saw last with some of the 
grooms. 1 said naught to him, for 1 trow thou wouldst not have 
him know thy plight! l’)l be with thee in the morning ere thou 
partest, if kings, queens, and cardinals roar themselves hoarse for 
the Quipsome.” 

With this promise Hal Randall bestowed his still dulled and half- 
stunned nephew carefully on the pallet provided by the care of the 
purveyors. Stephen slept dreamily at first, then soundly, and woke 
at the sound of the bells of Gravelines to the sense that a great crisis 
in his life was over, a strange wild dream of evil dispelled, and that 
he was to go home to see, hear, and act as he could, with a heart- 
ache indeed, but with the resolve to do his best as a true and honest 
man 

Bmallbones was already afoot — for the start for Calais was to be 
made on that very day. The smith was fully himself again, and was 
bawling for his subordinates, who had followed his e.\ample in in- 
dulging in the good cheer, and did not carry it off so easily. Giles, 
rather silent and surly, was out of bed, shouting answers to Small- 
ones and calling on Stephen to truss his points. He was in a mood 
not easy to understand, he would haruly speak, and never noticed 
the marks of the fray on Stephen’s temple — only half hidden by the 
dark curly hair. This was of course a relief, but Stephen could not 
help suspecting that he had been last night engaged in some revel 
about which he desirea no inquiries. 

Randall came just as the operation was completed. He was in a 
good deal of haste, having to restore the groom’s dress he wore by 
the time the owmer had finished the morning toilet of the lord cardi- 
nal’s palfreys. He could not wait to inquire how Stephen had con 
trived to fall into the hands of Fulford, his chief business being to 
put under safe charge a bag of coins, the largesse from the various 
princes and nobles whoni he had diverted — ducats, crowms, dollars, 
and angels all jingling together — to be bestowed wherever Perronel 
kept her store, and that Hal was content not to know', though the 
pair cherished a hope some day to retire on it from tooling. 

“ Tho^art a good lad, Steve,” said Hal. ” I’m right glad thou 
leavest this father of mine behind thee. 1 would not see thee such 
as he — no, not tor all the gold we saw on the Frenchmen’s backs.” 

This was the jester’s faiew'ell, but it was some time before the 
wagon was under way, for the carter and one of the smiths were 
missing, and were only at noon found in an alehouse, both very far 
gone in liquor, and one with a black ej’e. Kit discoursed on sobriety 
in the most edifying manner as at last he drove heavily along the 


THK AllMOl’HHli's PRENTICES. 173 

Street, almost the last in the baggage train of (he king and queens — 
but still in time to be so included in it as to save all difliculty at the 
gates. It was, however, very late in the evening when they reached 
Calais, so that darkness was coming on as they waited their turn at 
the drawbridge, with a cart full of scullions and pots and jians be- 
tore them, and a w'agon-load of tents behind. Tlie warders in charge 
of the gateway had orders to count over all whom they admitted, so 
that no unauthorized person might enter that much-valued fortress. 
When at length the wagon rolled forward into the shadow of the 
great towered gateway on the outer side of the moat, the demand 
was made, who was there? Giles had always insisted, as leader of 
the party, on making reply to such questions, and Smallbones waited 
tor his answer, but none was forthcoming. Therefore Kit shouted 
in reply, “ Alderman Headley’s w’ain and armorers. Two journey- 
men, one prentice, two smitlis, two wagoners.” 

‘‘ Seven !” rejoined the warder. “One — two — three— four — five. 
Ila! your company' seems to be lacking.” 

” Giles must have ridden on,” suggested Stephen, wdiile Kit, 
growling angrily, called on the lazy fellow. Will Wherry, to wake 
and show himself. But the officials were greatly hurried, and as 
long as no dangerous person got into Calais, it mattered little to them 
who might be left outside, so the}'^ hurried on the wagon into the 
narrow street. 

It was well that it was a summer night, for lodgings there were 
none. Every hostel was full and all the houses besides. The earlier 
cumers assured Kit that it was of no use to try to go on. The streets 
up to the wharf were choked, and he might think himself lucky to 
have his wagon to sleep in. But the horses? And food? However, 
there was one comfort — English tongues answered, it it was onl}'^ 
with denials. 

Kit’s store of traveling money was at a low ebb, and it was nearly 
exhausted by the time, at an exorbitant price, he had managed to 
get a little hay and water for the horses, and a couple of loaves and 
a hunch of bacon among the five hungry men. They were quite 
content to believe that Master Giles had ridden on before and secured 
better quarters and viands, nor could they much regret the absence 
of Will Wherry’s wide mouth. 

Kit called Stephen to council in the morning. His funds would 
not permit waiting for the missing ones, it he were to bring home 
any reasonable proportion of gain to his master. He believed that 
Master Headley would by no means risk the vhole party loitering at 
(y’alais, when it was highly probable that Giles might have joined 
some of the other travelers and embarked by himself. 

After all, Kit’s store had to be well-nigh expended before tlie 
horses, wagon, and all, could find means to encounter the miseries 
of the transit to Dover. Then, glad as he w’as to boon his native soil, 
his spirits sunk lower and lower as the wagon creaked on under the 
hot sun toward London. He bad actually hrought home only four 
marks to make over to his master; and although he could show a 
considerable score against the king and various nobles, these debts 
Avere not apt to be promptlj' discharged, and what was worse, two 
members of his party and one horse were missing. He little knew 
how narrow an escape he had had of losing a third. 


174 


THE AKMOUKEk’s PKENTICES. 


CHAPTER XXll 

AN INVASION. 

“ WTiat shall be the maiden’s fate? 

Who shall be the maiden’s mate?” 

Scott, 

No Giles Headley appeared to greet the travelers, though Kit 
Small bones had halted at Cauterbur 5 % to pour out entreaties to St. 
Thomas, and the vow of a steel and gilt reliquary of his best work- 
manship to contain the old siioe which a few years previously had 
so much disgusted Erasmus and his companion. 

Poor old fellow, he was too much crestfallen thoroughly to enjoy 
even the gladness of his little children, and his wife made no secret 
of her previous conviction that he was too duuderheaded not to run 
into some coil when she was not there to look after him. The alder- 
man was more merciful. Since there had been no invasion from 
Salisbury, he had regretted the not having gone himself, and he 
knew prett^”^ well that Kit’s power lay more in his arms than in his 
brain. He did not wonder at the small gain, nor at the having lost 
sight of the young man, and confidently expected the lost ones soon 
to appear. 

As to Dennet, her eyes shone quietly, and she took upon herself 
to send down to let Mistress Randall know cf her nephew’s return, 
and invite her to supper, and to liear the story of his doings. The 
girl did not look at all like a maiden uneasy about her lost lover, but 
much more like one enjoying for the moment the immunity from a 
kind of burden; and, as she smiled, called for Stephen’s help in her 
little arrangements, and treated him in the fi'iendlj' manner of old 
times, he could not but wonder at the panic that had overpowered 
him for a time like a fever of the mind. 

There was plenty to speak of in the glories of the Field of the 
Cloth of Gold, and the transactions with the knights and nobles; 
and Stephen held his peace as to his adventure, but Dennet’s eyes 
were sharper than Kit’s. She spied the remains of the bruise under 
his black curly hair; and while her father and Tib were unraveling 
the accounts from Kit's brain and tally-sticks, she got him out into 
the gallery, and observed, “ So thou hast a broken head. See here 
are grandmother’s lily-leaves in strong waters. Let me lay one on 
for thee. There, sit down on the step, then 1 can reach.” 

“ ’Tis well nigh whole now, sweet mistress,” said Stephen, com- 
plying however, for it was too sweet to have those little fingeis busy 
about him for the offer to be lieclmed. 

How gatst thou the blow?” asked Dennet. “ Was it at single- 
stick? Come, thou mayst tell me. ’Twas in standing up for some 
one.” 

” Nay, mistress, 1 would it had been.” 

“Thou hast been in trouble,” she .said, leaning on the baluster 
above him. ‘‘ Or did ill men set on thee?” 

” That’s the nearest guess,” said Stephen, 


” ’Twas that tall fa- 


Till'] AiniOl'REK’S PRENTICES. 


175 


tlier of mine aunt’s, the fellow that came here for armor, and botight 
poor Master Jlichael’a sword.” 

” And sliced the apple on thine hand. Ay?” 

” He would have me for one of his Badgers.” 

” Thou! Btephen!” It was a ciy of pain as well as horror. 

“ Yea, mistress; and when 1 refused, the fellow dealt me a blow, 
and laid me down senseless, to bear me off willy nilly, but that good 
old Lueas Hansen brought mine uncle to mine aid — ” 

Dennet clasped her hands. ” O Stephen, Stephen! Kow 1 know 
how good the Lord is. Wot ye, I asked of Tibbie to take me daily 
to St. Faith’s to crave of good St. .Julian to have you all in his keep- 
ing, and saith he on the wa}', ‘ IVIethinks, mistress, our dear Lord 
would hear you it you spake to Him direct, with no go-between.’ 
1 did as he bade me, Stephen, I went to the high altar, and prayed 
there, and Tibbie went with me, and lo, now. He hath brought you 
back safe. We will have a mass of thanksgiving on the verj^ morn. ” 

Stephen’s heart could not but bound, for it was plain enough for 
whom the cCief force of these prayers had been offered. 

” Sweet mistress,” he said, ” they have availed me indeed. 
Certes, they warded me in the time of sore trial and temptation.” 

” Isay,” said Dennet, ” thou couldst not have longed to go away 
from hence with those ill men who live by slaying and plundering?” 

The present temptation w’as to say that he had doubted whetlier it 
would not have been for the best for himself and for her, but he 
recollected that Giles might be at the gate, and if so, he should feel 
as if he had rather have bitten out his tongue than have let Dennet 
know the state of the case, so he only answered — 

“ There be sorer temptations in the world for us poor rogues than 
little home-biding house-crickets like thee wot of, mistress. Well 
that ye can pray for us without knowing all!” 

Stephen had never consciously come so near love-making, and his 
honest face was all one burning glow with the suppressed feeling, 
while Dennet lingered till the curfew warned them of the lateness of 
the hour, both with a strange sense of undefined pleasure in the 
being together in the summer twilight. 

Day after day passed on with no news of Giles or Will Whcrr 3 ^ 
» The alderman grew uneasy, and sent Stephen to ask his brother to 
write to Randall or to some one else in M olse^’^’s suite to make in- 
quiries at Bruges, while through the many comers and goers to and 
from Calais, he instituted inquiries there, but nothing was heard un- 
til the return of Ambrose with Sir Thomas More, from Calais, some 
six weeks hit er. There a small packet had been handed to Ambrose. 
It was tied up with a long tough pale wisp of hair, evidently' from 
the mane or tail of some Flemish horse, and was addressed, ” To 
Ma.ster Ambrose Birkenholt, menial clerk to the most w’orshipful Sir 
Thomas More, Knight, Under Sheriff of the City of Loudon. Theso 
greeting — ” 

Within, when Ambrose could open the missive, was another small 
parcel, and a piece of brow'n coarse paper, on which was scrawled : — 

” Good Ambrose Bikkeniiolt, — I pray thee to stand my 
friend, and let all know whom it may concern, that when this same 
billet comes to hand, 1 shall be far on the march to High Germany, 


THE AKMOUKEK’S 1‘RENTrCES. 


176 

witli a company of hisly fellows in the emperor’s service. They be 
commanded by the good knight Sir John Fulford. 

“ If tliou canst send tidings to my mother, bid her keep her heart 
up, for I shall come back a captain, full of wealth and honor, and 
that will be better than hammering for life— or being wedded 
asrainst mine own will. There never was troth plight between my 
mastei-'s daughter and me, and my time is over, so 1 be quit with 
them, and 1 thank my muster tor his goodness. They shall all hear 
of me some of these days. Will Wherry is my groom, and com- 
mends him to his mother. And so, commending thee and all the 
rest to Our Lady and the saints. 

“ Thine to command, 

“ Giles Headi.ey, 

''■Man-at-Arms in the Honorable Company 
of Sir John Fulford, Knight." 

On a separate strip was written : — 

“ Give this packet to the little Moorish maid, and tell her that I 
will bring her better by and by, and mayhap make her a knight’s 
lady; but on thy life, say naught to any other.” 

It was out now! Ambrose’s head was more in Sir Thomas’s 
books than in real life at all times, or he would long ago have in- 
ferred sometliiug —from the jackdaw’s favorite phrase — from Giles’s 
mode of hauniinghis steps, and making him the bearer of small 
tokens — an orange, a simnel cake, a bag of walnuts or almonds to 
]\Iistre5s Aldonza, and of the smiles, blushes, and thanks with which 
she greeted them. !Naj% had she not burst into team and entreated 
to be spared when Lady IMore wanted to make a match between her 
and the big porter, and had not her distress led IMistress Margaret to 
appeal to her father, who had said he should as soon think of wed- 
ding the silver footed Thetis to Polyphemus. ” Tilley valley! Mas- 
ter Moie,” the lady had answered, ‘‘ will all your fine pagan gods 
hinder the wench from staiAiiug on earth, and leading apes in hell?” 

iMargaret had answered that Aldonza should never do the first, and 
Sir Thomas had gravely said that he thought those black eyes would 
lead many a man on earth before they came to the latter fate. 

Ambinse hid the parcel tor her deep in his bosom before he asked 
permission of his master to go to the Dragon Court with the rest of 
the tidings. 

“ lie always was an unmannerly cub,” said Master Headley, as 
he read the letter. “ Well, I’ve done my best to make a silk purse 
of a sow's ear! I’ve done my duty by poor Robert’s sou, and if he 
will be such a fool as to run alter blood and wounds, 1 have no more 
to say! Though ’tis pity of the old name! Ila! what’s this? 
‘ Wedded against my will — no troth plight.’ Forsooth, I thought 
my young master was mighty slack. He hath some other matter in 
his mind, hath he? Run into some coil maj'^hap with a beggar 
wench! Well, we need not be beholden to him. Ha, Dennet, my 
maid!” 

Dennet screwed up her little mouth, and looked very demure, but 
.she twinkled her bright eyes and said, “My heart will not break, 
sii', 1 am in no haste to be wed.” 


177 


THE AKMOUKER’s PRENTICES. 

Her father pinched her cheek and said she was a silly wench; but 
perhaps he marked the dancing step with which the young mistress 
went about her household cares, and how she was singing to herself 
songs that certainh'^ M'ere not “ 'Willow! willow!” 

Ambrose had no scruple in delivering to Aldonza the message and 
token, when he overtook her on the stairs of the house at Chelsea, 
carrying up a lapful of roses to the still room, where Dajfie Alice 
Mure was rejoicing in setting her step daughters to housewifely tasks. 
There came a wonderful illumination and agitation over the girl’s 
usually impassive features, giving all that they needed to make them 
surpassingly beautiful. 

‘‘ 'Woe is me!” was however her first exclamation. ‘‘ That he 
should have given up all for me! Oh! if 1 had thought it!” But 
while she spoke as it she were shocked and appalled, her eyes belied 
her words. They shone with the first absolute certainty of love, and 
there was no realizing as yet the years of silent •waiting and anxiety 
that must go by, nay, perhaps an entire lifetime of uncertainty of 
her lover’s truth or untruth, life or death. 

Dame Alice called her, and in a rambling, maundering way, 
charged her with loitering and gadding with the young men; and 
Margaret saw by her color and by her ej'es that some strange thing 
had happened to her. Margaret had perhaps some intuition; for wiis 
not her heart very tender toward a certain young barrister whom her 
father doubted as yet, because of his Lutheran inclinations. By and 
by she discovered that she needed Aldonza to comb out her long dark 
hair, and ere long, she had heard all the tale of the youth cured by 
the girl’s father, and all his gifts, and how Aldonza deemed him too 
great and too good for her (poor Giles!) though she knew she should 
never do more than look up to him with love and gratitude from 
afar. And she never so much as dreamed that he would cast an eye 
on her save in kindness. Oh, yes, she knew what he had taught the 
daw to say, but then she was a child, she durst not deem it more. 
And Margaret More was more kind and eager than worldly wise, 
and she encouraged Aldonza to watch and wait, promised protection 
from all enforced suits and suitors, and gave a.ssurances of shelter 
as her own attendant as long as the girl should need it. 

Master Headley, with some sighing and groaning, applied himself 
to write to the mother at Salisbury what had become of her son; but 
he had only spent one evening over the trying task, when just as the 
supper bell was ringing, with Master Hope and his wife as guests, 
there were horses’ feet in the court, and JVIaster Tiptoff appeared, 
•w'ith a servant on another horse, who carried besides a figure in 
camlet, on a pillion. No sooner was this same figure lifted from her 
steed and set down on the steps, while the master of the house and 
his daughter came out to greet her, than she began ” Master Aider- 
man Headley, 1 am here to know •what you have done with my poor 
son?” 

“ Alack, good cousin!” 

” Alack me no alacks,” she interrupted, holding up her riding- 
rod. ” I’ll have no dissembling, there hath been enough of that, 
Giles Headley. Thou hast sold him, .soul and body, to one of yon 
cruel, bloodthirsty, plundering, burning captains, that the poor 
child may he slain and murthered! Is this the fair promises you 


178 


THE armourer’s PRENTICES. 


made to bis father — wiling him away from his poor mother, a 
widow, with talkinjr of leaching him the craft, and giving him your 
daughter! son Tiirtolf here told me the spousal was delayed and 
delayed, and he doubted whether it would ever come off, but 1 
thought not of this sending him beyond seas, to make merchandise 
of him. And you call yourself an alderman! The gown should be 
striped oft the* back of you, and shall be, if there be an}’- justice in 
London tor a widow woman.” 

‘‘ Kay, cousin, you have heard some strange tale,” said Master 
Headley, who, much as he would have dreailed the attack before- 
hand, faced it the more calmly and manfully because the accusation 
was so outrageous. 

‘‘ Ay, so 1 told h<jr,” began her son-in-law, ” but she hath been 
neither to have nor to hold since the — ” 

” And how should I be to have or to hold by a nincompoop like 
thee,” she said, turning round on him, ” that would have me sit 
down and be content forsooth, when mine only son is kidnapped to 
be sold to the Turks or to work in the galleys, for aught i know?” 

” Mistress!” here Master Ilope’svoice came in, ” 1 would counsel 
you to speak less loud, and hear before you accuse. We of the City 
of London know Master Alderman Headley too well to hear him 
railed against.” 

‘‘Ah! you are all of a piece,” she began, but by this time Master 
Tiptoff had managed at least to get her into the hall, and had ex- 
changed words enough with the alderman to assure himself that 
there was an explanation, nay, that there was a letter from Giles 
himself. This the indignant mother presently was made to under- 
shind — and as the alderman had borrowed the letter in order to copy 
it tor her, it was given to her. She could not read, and would trust, 
no one but her son-in-law to read it to her. ‘‘ Yea, you have it very 
pat,” she said, ” but how am 1 to be assured ’tis not all writ here to 
hoodwink a poor woman like me?” 

” ’Tis Giles’s hand,” averred Tiptoff. 

‘‘ And if you will,” added the alderman, with wonderful patience, 
” to morrow you may speak with the youth who received it. Come, 
sit down and sup with us, amt then you shall learn from Srnallbones 
how this mischance befell, all from my sending two young heads 
together, and one who, though a good fellow, could not hold all in 
rule.” 

” Ay— you’ve your reasons for anything,” she muttered, but be- 
ing both weary and hungry, she consented to eat and drink, while 
Tiptoff, who was evidently ashamed of her violence and anxious to 
excuse it, managed to explain that a report had been picked up at 
Romsey by abarelooted friar from Salisbury that young Giles Head- 
ley had been seen at Ghent by one of the servants of a wool mer- 
chant, riding with a troop of Free Companions in the emperor’s 
service. All the rest was deduced from this intelligence by the 
dame’s own imagination. 

After supper she was invited to interrogate Kit and Stephen, and 
hei grief and anxiety found vent in fierce scolding at the misrule 
which had permitted such a villain as Fulford to be haunting and 
tempting poor fatherless lads. Master Headley had reproached poor 
Kit for the same thing, but he could only represent that Giles, being 


THE armourer’s PRENTICES. 179 

a freeman, was no longer under Ids authority. However, she 
.stormed on, being absolute!}' convinced that her son’s evasion was 
every one’s fault but his own. Now it was the aklennan tor mis- 
using him, overtasking the poor child, and deferring the marriasre, 
now jt was that little pert poppet, Dennet, who had flouted him, 
now It was the bad company he had been led into — the poor babe 
who had been bred to godl}’ wa3's. 

The alderman was really sorry for her, and felt himself to blame 
so far as that he had shifted the guidance of the expedition lo such 
an insufficient head as poor Smallbones, so he let her rail on as much 
as she would, and the storm exhausted itself, and she settled into 
the trust that Giles would soon grow weary and return. The good 
man felt bound to show her all hospitality, tnd the civilities to 
country cousins wer’e in proportion to the rarity of their visits. So 
Mrs. Ileadlej' stayed on after Tiptoff’s return lo Salisbury, and had 
the best view feasible of all the pageants and diversions of autumn. 
She saw some magnitlcent processions of clergy, she was welcomed 
at a civic banquet and drunk of the loving cup, and she beheld the 
lord mayor’s show in all its picturesque glory of emblazoned barge 
on the river. In fact, she found the position of denizen of an alder- 
man’s liousehold so very agreeable that she did her best to make it a 
permanency. Nay, Dennet soon found that she considered herself 
to be waiting there and keeping guard till her son’s return should 
establish her there, and that she viewed the girl alread}' as a daughter 
— for which Dennet was by no means obliged to her! She lavished 
counsel on her hostess, found fault with the maidens, criticised the 
cookery, walked into the kitchen and still-room with assistance and 
directions, and even made a strong effort to possess herself of the 
keys. 

It must be confessed that Dennet was saucy! It was her weapon 
of self-defense, and she considered herself insulted in her own 
house. 

There she stood, exalted on a tall pair of pattens before the stout 
oaken table in the kitchen where a glowing fire burned; pewter, red 
and yellow earthenware, and clean scrubbed trenchers made a good- 
ly show, a couple of men-cooks and twice as many scullions obeyed 
her behests — only the superior of the two first ever daring to argue a 
point with her. There she stood, in her white apron and culls, 
daintily compounding her mince-meat for Christmas, wdien in stalked 
IMrs. Headley to offer her counsel and aid — but this was lost iu a 
volley of barking from the long-backed, bandy-legged turnspit dog, 
w'hich was awaiting its turn at the wheel. 

She shook her petticoats at him, but Dennet tittered even while 
declaring that Tray hurt nobody. Mrs. Headley reviled the dog, 
and then proceeded to advise Dennet that she should chop her citron 
finer. Dennet made answer that father liked a good stout piece of 
it. lilistress Headley offered to take the chopper and instruct her 
how to compound all in the true Sarum style. 

“ Grammercy, mistress, but we follow my grand-dame’s recipe!” 
said Dennet, grasping her implement firuily. 

” Come, child, be not above taking a lesson from thine elders! 
Where’s the goose? What?” as the girl looked amazed, ‘‘ where 


« 


180 THE ARMOURER^S PRENTICES. 

liast thou lived not to know that a live goose should be bled into the 
niince-meat?” 

“ 1 have never lived with barbarous, savage folk,” said Dennet — 
and therewith she burst into an irrepressible fit of laughter, trying 
in vain to check it, for a small and mischievous elf, fresldy promoted 
to the office of scullion, had crept up and pinned a dish-cloth ^ the 
substantial petticoats, and as Mistress Headley whisked round to 
see what was the matter, like a kitten after its tail, it followed her 
like a train, while she rushed to box the ears of the offender, cry- 
ing, 

‘‘You set him on, you little saucy vixen. 1 saw it in your eyes. 
Let the rascal be scourged.” 

‘‘Not so,” said Dennet, with prim mouth and laughing eyes. 
” Far be it from mel But ’tis ever the wont of the kitchen when 
those come there who have no call.” 

Mistress Headley flounced away, dish-cloth and all, to go whim- 
pering 1o the alderman with her tale of insults. She trusted that her 
cousin would give the pert wench a good beating. She was not a 
whit too old tor it. 

‘‘ How oft did you beat Giles, good kinswoman?” said Dennet de- 
murely, as she stood by her father. 

■ ” Whisht, whisht, child,” said her father, ‘‘ this may not be! I, 
cannot have my guest flouted.” 

‘‘ If she act as our guest, I will treat her with all honor and court- 
esy,” said the maiden; ‘‘ but when she comes where we look not 
for guests, there is no saying what the black guard may take it on 
them to do.” 

^Master Headley was mischievously tickled at the retort, and not 
without hope that it might offend his kinswoman into departing. 

IVIeauiime it the alderman’s peace on one side was disturbed by 
his visitor, on the other, suitors for Dennet’s hand gave him little 
rest. She was known to be a considerable heiress, and though IMis- 
tress Headley gave every one to understand that there w'as a con- 
tract with Giles, and that she was awaiting his return, this did not 
deter more wooers than Dennet ever knew of, from making pro- 
posals to her father. Jasper Hope was offered, but he was too 
young, and besides, was a mercer— and Dennet and her father were 
agreed that her husband must go on with the trade. Then there was 
a master armorer, but he was a widower with sons and daughters as 
old as Dennet, and she shook her head and laughed at the bare 
notion. Also a young knight came who would have turned the 
Dragon Court into a tilt-yard, and spent all the gold that long years 
of prudent toil had amassed. 

If Mistress Headley deemed each denial the result of her vigilance 
for her son’s interests, she was the more impelled to expatiate on the 
folly of leaving a maid of sixteen to herself, without giving her a 
good step mother, or at least putting a kinswoman in authority over 
her. 

The alderman was stung. He certainly had warmed a snake on 
his hearth, and how was he to be rid of it? He secretly winked at 
the resumption of a forge fire that had been abandoned, because the 
noise and smoke incommoded the dwelling-house, and Kit Small- 
bones hammered his loudest there when the guest might be taking 


THE armourer’s PRENTICES. 181 

her morning nap, but this had no effect in driving her away, tliough 
it may have told upon her temper; and good-humored Master Head- 
ley was harassed more than he had ever been in Ids lite. 

“It puts me past my patience,” said be, turning into Tibbie’s 
special workshop one atternoon. “ Here bath Mistress Rickhill of 
the Eagle been with me full of proposals that 1 would give my poor 
wench to that scapegrace lad of hers, who hath been twice called to 
account before the guild, but who now, forsooth, is to turn over a 
new leaf.” 

“ So 1 wis would the Dragon under him,” quoth Tibbie. 

“ 1 told her ’twas not to be thought of, and then what does the 
dame but sniff the air and protest that 1 had better take heed, for 
there maj^ not De so many that would choose a spoiled, misruled maid 
like mine. Tlierc’s the work of yonder Saruin woman. 1 tell thee, 
Tib, never was bull in the ring more baited than am I.” 

“Yea, sir,” returned Tib, “there’ll be no help for it till our young 
mistress be wed.” 

“ Ay! that’s the rub! But I’ve not seen one whom 1 could mate 
with her — let alone one who would keep up the old house. Giles 
would have done that passably, though he were searce worthy of the 
wench, even without — ” An expressive shake of the head denoted 
the rest. “ And now if he ever come home at all, ’twill be as a foul- 
mouthed, plundering scarecrow, like the kites of men-at-arms, who, 
if they lose not their lives, lose all that makes an honest life in the 
Italian wars. 1 wmuld have writ to Edmund Burgess, but 1 hear his 
elder brother is dead, and he is driving a good traffic at York. Be- 
like too he is wedded.” 

“ Nay,” said Tibbie, “ 1 could tell of one who would be true and 
faithful to your worship, and a loving husband to lilisiress Dennet, 
ay, and would be a master that all of us would gladly cleave to. For 
he is godly after his lights, and sound- hearted, and wots what good 
work be, and can do it.” 

“ That were a son-in-law, Tib! Of whom speakest thou? Is he 
of good birth?” 

“ Yea, of gentle birth and breeding.” 

“ And willing? But that they all are. Wherefore then hath he 
never made suit?” 

“ He hath not yet his freedom.” 

“ AVho be it then?” 

“ He that made this elbow-piece for the suit that Queen Margaret 
ordered tor the little King of Scots,” returned 'fibble, producing an 
exquisite miniature bit of workmanship. 

“ Stephen Birkenholt! The fool’s nephew ! Mine own prentice!” 

“ Yea, and the best worker in steel we have yet turned out. Since 
the sickness of last winter hath stiffened my joints and tlimmed 
mine eyes, I had rather trust dainty work such as this to him than 
to myself.” 

“ Stephen! Tibbie, bath he set thee on to this?” 

“ No, sir. We both know too well what becometh us; but when 
you were casting about tor a mate tor my young mistress, I could 
not but think how men seek tar, and overlook the jewel at their 
feet.” • 

“ He hath naught! That brother of his will give him naught. ” 


182 


THE AKMOUREr’s PRENTICES. 

“ He hath what will be better for the old Dragon and for your 
worship’s self, than man}'^ a bag of gold, sir.” 

“ Thou sayst truly there, Tib. I know him so tar that he would 
not be the ingrate Jack to turn his back on the old master or the 
old man. He is a eood lad. But— but— I’ve ever set my face 
against the prentice wedding the master’s daughter, save when he 
is of her own house, like Giles. Tell me, Tibbie, deemsl thou (he 
varlet hath dared to lift his e 3 ’es to the lass?” 

” 1 wot nothing of love!” said Tibbie, somewhat grimly. ‘‘ I have 
seen naught. I only told your worship where a good sou and good 
master might be had. Is it j'our pleasure, sir, that we take m a 
freight of sea-coal from Simon Collier for the new furnace? His is 
purest, if a mark more the chaldron.” 

He spoke as it he put the recommendation of the son and master 
on the same line as that of the coal. j\Ir. Headle}' answered the 
business matters absently, and ended by saying he would think on 
the counsel. 

In Tibbie’s workroom, with the clatter of a forge close to them, 
^hey had not heard a commotion in the court outside. Dennet had 
been standing on the steps cleaning her tame starling’s cage, when 
IVlistress Headley had suddenly come out on the gallery behind her, 
hotly scolding her laundress, and waving her cap to show how ill- 
starched it was. 

The bird had taken fright and flown to the tree in the court; 
Dennet hastened in pursuit, but all the boys and children in the 
court rushing out after her, her blandishments had no chance, and 
‘‘ Goldspot ” had fluttered on to the gateway. Stephen had by this 
time come out, and hastened to the gate, hoping to turn the truant 
back from escaping into Cheapside; but all in vain, it flew out while 
the market w'as in full career, and he could only call back to her that 
he would not lose sight of it. 

Out he hurried, Dennet waiting in a sort of despair by the tree for 
a time that seemed to her endless, until Stephen reappeared under 
the gate, with a signal that all was well. She darted to meet him. 
” Yea, mistress, here he is, the little caitiff. He was just knocked 
down by this country lad’s cap— happily not hurt. 1 told him j’ou 
would give him a tester for jmur bird.” 

‘‘With all mj" heart!” and Dennet produced the coin. ‘‘Oh! 
Stephen, are you sure he is safe? Thou bad Goldspot to fly aw»y 
from me! Wink with thine eye— thou saucy rogue! Wot test thou 
not that but for Stephen they might be blinding thy sw^eet blue eyes 
with hot needles?” 

‘‘ His wing is giown since the moulting,” said Stephen. ‘‘It 
should be cut to save such mischances.” 

‘‘Will jwi do it? 1 will hold him,” said Dennet. ‘‘Ah! ’tis 
pity, the beauteous green gold-bedropped wing — that no armor of 
tliine can equal, Stephen, not even the little King of Scots’. But 
shouldst not be so silly a bird, Goldie, even though thou hadst thine 
excuse. There! Peck not, ill birdling. Know thy friends. Master 
Stare.” ' . 

And with such pretty nonsense the two stood together, Dennet in 
her white cap, short crimson kirt\e, little stiff collar, and white bib 
and apron, holding her bird upside down in one hand, and with the 


THE armourer’s PRENTICfIS. 183 

other trying to keep liis angry beak from pecking Stephen, who, in 
his leathern coat and apron, grimed, as well as his crisp black hair, 
with soot, stood towering above her, stooping to hold out the lustrous 
wing with one hand while he used his smallest pair of shears with 
the other to clip the pen-feathers. 

“ See there. Master Alderman,” cried Mistress Headley, bursting 
on him from the gallery stairs. ‘‘ Be that what you call fitting for 
your daughter and your prentice, a beggar lad from the heath? I 
ever told you she would bring you to shame thus left to herself. 
And now you see it. ’ ’ 

Their heads had been near together over the starling, but at this 
objurgation they started apart, both crimson in the theeks, and 
Dennet flew up to her father, bird in hand, crying, ” 0 father, 
father! suffer her not. He did no wrong! He was cutting my 
bird’s wing.” 

‘‘ 1 suffer no one to insult my child in her own house,” said the 
alderman, so much provoked as to be determined to put an end to it 
all at once. ” Stephen Birkenholt, come here.” 

Stephen came, cap in hand, red in the tace, with a strange tumult 
in his heart, ready to plead guilty, (hough he had done nothing, but 
imagining at the moment that his feelings had been actions. 

” Stephen,” said the alderman, ” thou art a true and worthy lad! 
Canst thou love my daughter?” 

” 1—1 crave your pardon, sir, there was no helping it,” stammered 
Stephen, not catching tlie tone of the strange interrogation, and ex- 
pecting any amount of terrible consequences for his presumption. 

” Then thou wilt be a faithful spouse to her, and son to me? And 
Dennet, my daughter, hast thou any distaste to this youth — though 
he bring naught but skill and honesty?” 

‘‘ O, father, father! 1 — 1 had rather have him than any other!” 

“ Tlien, Stephen Birkenholt and Dennet Headley, ye shall be man 
and wife, so soon as the young man’s term be over, and he be a 
freeman — so he continue to be that which he seems at present. 
Thereto 1 give my -word, 1, Giles Headley, Alderman of the Chepe 
Ward, and thereof ye are witnesses, all of you. And God’s bless- 
ing on it.” 

A tremendous hurrah arose, led by Kit Smallboncs, from every 
workman in the court, and the while Stephen and Dennet, unaware 
of anything else, flew into one another’s arms, while Goldspot, on 
whom the operation had been fortunately completed, took refuge 
upon Stephen’s head. 

” O Mistress Dennet, 1 have made you black ail over!” was 
Stephen’s first word. 

‘‘Heed not, 1 ever loved the black,” she cried, as her eyes 
sparkled. 

‘‘ So 1 have donerwhat was to thy mind, my lass?” 

‘‘ Sir, 1 did not know fully — but indeed 1 should never have been 
so happy as 1 am now.” 

“ Sir,” added Stephen, putting his knee to the ground, ” it nearly 
wrung my heart to think of her as belonging to another, though 1 
never durst utter aught ’’—and while Deunet embraced her father, 
Stephen sobbed for very joy, and with dilficiilty said in broken 
W'ords something about a “ son’s duly and devotion.” 


184 


THE AKMOURER’s PRENTICES. 


They were broken in upon by Mistress Headley, who, after stand- 
ing in mute consternation, tell on them in a fury. She understood 
the device now ! All had been a scheme laid amongst them for 
defrauding her poor fatherless child, driving him away, and taking 
up this beggarly brat. She had seen through the little baggage from 
the first, and she pitied Master Headley. Rage was utterly ungov- 
ernable in those days, and she actually was flying to attack Dennet 
with her nails when the alderman caught her by the wrists; and she 
would have been almost too much for him had not Kit Smallbones 
come to his assistance, and carried ner, kicking and screaming like a 
naughty child, into the house. There was small restraint of temper 
in tlmse days evtin in high life, and below it, there was some reason 
tor the employment of the padlock and the ducking-stool. 

Floods of tears restored the dame to some sort ol composure; but 
she declared she could stay no longer in a house where her son had 
been ill-used and deceived, and she had been insulted. The aider- 
man thought the insult had been the other way, but he was too glad 
to be rid of her on any terms to gainsay her, and at his own charge, 
undertook to procure horse and escort to convey her safely to Salis- 
bury the next morning. He advised Stephen to keep out of her sight 
for the rest of the day, giving leave of absence, so that the youth, as 
one treading on air, set forth to carry to his brother, Lis aunt , and if 
possible, his uncle, the intelligence that he could as yet hardly believe 
was more than a happy dream. 


THE END. 


THE PALL FASHIONS POE 1881 
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370 Ralph Wilton’s Wei^ 10 

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668 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 10 

816 White Wings: A Yachting Romance. 10 

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811 Dudley Carleon 18 

828 The Fatal Marriage 1(5 

837 Just as I Am; or, A Living Lie 20 

942 Asphodel 20 

1154 The Misletoe Bough 20 

1265 Mount Royal 20 

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186 “Good-Bye, Sweetheart” 10 

289 Red as a Rose is She 20 

285 Cometh Up as a Flower. 10 

402 “Not Wisely, But Too Well” 20 

458 Nancy 20 

526 Joan 20 

762 Second Thoughts 20 

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10 The Woman in White 20 

14 The Dead Secret 20 

22 Man and Wife 20 

82 The Queen of Hearts 20 

88 Antonina 20 

42 Hide-and-Seek 20 

76 The New Magdalen 10 

94 The Law and The Lady 20 

180 Armadale 20 

191 My Lady’s Money 10 

225 The Two Destinies 10 

250 No Name 20 

286 After Dark 10 

409 The Haunted Hotel 10 

433 A Shocking Story 10 

487 A Rogue’s Life 10 

551 The Yellow Mask. 10 

583 Fallen Leaves 20 

654 Poor Miss Finch 20 

675 The Moonstone 20 

696 Jezebel’s Daughter 20 

ilS The Captain’s Last Love 10 

721 Basil 20 

745 The Magic Spectacles 10 

905 Duel In Herne Wood 10 

928 Who Killed Zebedee? 10 

971 The Frozen Deep 10 

990 The Black Robe 20 


ib-W Heart and Science. A Story of the Present Time. IW 


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J. FENIMORE COOPER’S WORKS. 

222 Last of the Mohicans 2C 

824 The Deerslayer 2C 

226 The Pathfinder. 2C' 

229 The Pioneers 2C 

231 The Prairie 2C 

233 The Pilot 2C 

685 The Water-Witch 20 

690 The Two Admirals 2C 

615 The Red Rover 20 

761 Wing and- Wing 20 

940 The Spy 20 

1066 The Wyandotte 20 

i257 Afloat and Ashore 20 

1262 Miles Wallingford (Sequel to “Afloat and Ashore”) 20 

1569 The Headsman; or. The Abbaye des Vignerons 20 

1605 The Monikins 20 

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CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 

20 The Old Curiosity Shop 20 

100 A Tale of Two Cities 20 

102 Hard Times 10 

118 Great Expectations ^ 20 

187 David Copperfield 20 

200 Nicholas Nickleby 20 

213 Barnaby Rudge 20 

218 Dorn bey and Son. 20 

239 No Thoroughfare. (Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins) 10 

247 Martin Chuzzlewit 20 

272 The Cricket on the Hearth 10 

284 Oliver Twist 20 

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875 Mugby Junction 10 

403 Tom Tiddler’s Ground 10 

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Sketches of Young Couples 10 

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' ■ — O 

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860 The Mystery of Edwin Drood 2G 

900 Pictures From Italy IQ 

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1683 The Plays and Poems of Charles Dickens, with a few Miscel- 
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and Annotated by Richard Herne Shepherd. First half. 20 
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WORKS BY THE AUTHOR OF “ DORA THORNE.” 

449 More Bitter than Death 10 

618 Madolin’s Lover 20 

656 A Golden Dawn 10 

678 A Dead Heart 10 

718 Lord Lynne’s Choice; or. True Love Never Runs Smooth. 10 

746 Which Loved Him Best 30 

846 Dora Thorne 20 

921 At War with Herself 10 

931 The Sin of a Lifetime 20 

1013 Lady Gw’endoline’s Dream 10 

1018 Wife in Name Only 20 

1044 Like No Other Love IG 

1060 A Woman’s War 10 

1072 Hilary’s Folly 10 

1074 A Queen Amongst Women 10 

1077 A Gilded Sin 10 

1081 A Bridge of Love 10 

1085 The Fatal Lilies 10 

10S9 Wedded and Parted 1C 

1107 A Bride From the Sea 10 

1110 A Rose in Thorns 10 

1115 The Shadow of a Sin 10 

1132 Redeemed by Love 1C 

1126 The Story of a Wedding-Ring 10 

1127 Love’s Warfare 20 

1132 Repented at Leisure 20 

1179 From Gloom to Sunlight • 20 

1309 Hilda 20 

1218 A Golden Heart 20 

1266 Ingledew House 10 

1288 A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 

1305 Love For a Day; or. Under the Lilacs 10 

1357 The Wife’s Secret 10 

1393 Two Kisses 10 

1460 Between Two Sins 10 

1640 The Cost of Her Love. 20 

1664 Romance of a Black Veil ‘JC 


n THE SEASIDE LIBE ART —Ordinary Edition, 

'■ m ■! I .■■ ■ ■ ■ II I ■■ ■ ■■■ I ra 

“THE DUCHESS’” WORKS. 

858 Phyllis (small type) 10 

589 Phyllis (large type) 20 

893 Molly Bawn 20 

445 The Baby 10 

499 “Airy Fairy Lilian ” 20 

771 Beauty’s Daughters 20 

855 How Snooks Got Out of It 10 

1010 Mrs. Geoffrey 20 

1169 Faith and Unfaith 20 

1518 Portia; or, “By Passions Rocked.” 20 

1587 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d 10 

1666 Loys, Lord Berresford, and Other Talcs 20 

ALEXANDER DUMAS’ WORKS. 

144 The Twin Lieutenants 10 

151 The Russian Gipsy 10 

155 The Count of Monte Cristo (Quadruple Number) 40 

160 The Black Tulip 10 

167 The Queen’s Necklace 20 

172 The Chevalier de Maison Rouge 20 

184 The Countess de Charny 20 

188 Nanon 10 

193 Joseph Balsamo; or, Memoirs of a Physician 20 

194 The Conspirators 10 

198 Isabel of Bavaria 10 

201 Catherine Blum 10 

223 Beau Tancrede; or. The Marriage Verdict (small type),,.. 10 

^7 Beau Tancrede; or. The Marriage Verdict (large type) 20 

228 The Regent’s Daughter 10 

244 The Three Guardsmen '20 

268 The Forty-five Guardsmen 20 

276 The Page of the Duke of Savoy 10 

278 Six years Later; or, Taking the Bastile 20 

!^3 Twenty Years After 20 

298 Captain Paul 10 

806 Three Strong Men 10 

818 Ingenue 10 

831 Aciventures of a Marquis. First half 20 

331 Adventures of a Marquis. Second half 20 

342 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. 1. (small tyjie) 10 

1665 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. I. (large type) 20 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. II. (large type) 20 

3565 The Mohicans of Paris^ Vol. III. (large type) 20 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. IV. (large type) 20 

344 Ascanio 10 

608 1'he Watchmaker 20 

616 The Two Dianas 20 

622 Andree de Taverney 20 

364 Vicomte de Bragelonne (1st Series) 20 

Vicomte de Bxagelonne (3d Series). . ao 


£BE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Ordinwry EdiMon. tu 


ALEXANDER DUMAS’ WORKS— Continued. 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne (3d Series) 26 

664 Vicomte de Brageloune (4lh Series) 20 

688 Chicot, the Jester 20 

849 Doctor Basilius 20 

1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. 1 26 

1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of " The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. II 20 

1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. Ill 20 

1452 Salvator; Being the continuation and conclusion of “The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. IV 2C 

1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. V 20 

1561 ^he Corsican Brothers 10 

1592 Marguerite de Valois, An Historical Romance 20 

GEORGE EBERS’ WORKSo 

712 Uarda: A Romance of Ancient Egypt 2C 

756 Homo Sum 10 

812 An Egyptian Princess 20 

880 The Sisters ,20 

1120 The Emperor 2C 

1397 The Burgomaster’s Wife. A Tale of the Siege of Leyden. 20 
1594 Only a Word. .. - 20 

GEORGE ELIOT’S WORKS, 

7 Adam Bede 20 

11 The Mill on the Floss (small type) 10 

941 The Mill on the Floss (large type) 20 

15 Romola 20 

35 Felix Holt, the Radical 20 

58 Silas Marner m. . . . 10 

70 Middlemarch 20 

80 Daniel Deronda 20 

202 Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 1C 

217 Sad Fortunes of Rev. Amos Barton 1C 

277 Brother Jacob IG 

309 Janet’s Repentance 1C 

527 Impressions of Theophrastus Such 10 

1276 The Spanish Gypsy: A Poem..... 2C 

MRS. FORRESTER’S WORKS. 

395 Fair Women 90 

431 Diana Carew 8t 

474 Viva 98 

Rhooa. ............ ..o Vj 


®TTI 


TEE SEA STB E LTEE ART. —Ordinary Edition, 


MRS. FORRESTER'S WORKS.-Continued. 


638 A Young Man’s Fancy IS 

556 Mignon 20 

673 The Turn of Fortune’s Wheel 10 

600 Dolores SO 

620 In a Country House 10 

632 Queen Elizabeth’s Garden 16 

858 Roy and Viola 2C 

894 My Hero 26 

1163 My Lord and My Lady 26 

1471 I Have Lived and Loved 20 

1688 From Olympus to Hades 20 


EMILE GABORIAU’S WORKS. 

408 File No. 113 SO 

465 Monsieur Lecoq. First half 20 

465 Monsieur Lecoq. Second half 20 

476 The Slaves of Paris. First half 20 

476 The Slaves of Paris. Second half 20 

490 Marriage at a Venture 10 

494 The Mystery of Orcival. 20 

501 Other People’s Money 20 

609 Within an Inch of His Life 20 

515 The Widow Lerouge ^ 

623 The Clique of Gold 20 

671 The Count’s Secret. Part 1 20 

671 The Count’s Secret. Part II ^ 

704 Captain Contanceau; or, The Volunteers of 1792 10 

741 The Downward Path; or, A House Built on Sand (La 

Degringolade). Parti 20 

741 The Downward Path; or, A House Built on Sand (La 

Degringolade ). Part II 20 

758 The Little Old Man of the Batignolles 10 

778 The Men of the Bureau 10 

789 Premises of Marriage 10 

813 The 13th Hussars 10 

834 A Thousand Francs Reward 10 

899 Max’s Marriage; or, The Vicomte’s Choice 10 

1184 The Marquise de Brinvilliers 30 


MARY CECIL HAY’S WORKS. 

8 The Arundel Motto 

407 The Arundel Motto (in large type), . , , • 

9 Old Myddelton’s Money 

427 Old Myddelton’s Money (in large type). ....... 

17 Hidden Perils 

434 Hidden Perils (in large type) 

23 The Squire’s Legacy 

616 The Squire’s Legacy (in large typoX „ 


10 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

10 


MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


THE SEASIDE LIBEAET.-POCKET EDITION. 

[CONTINDED FROM SECOND PAGE OP COVER.] 


NO. PRICE. 

113 Mrs. Carr’s Companion. By M. Wight- 

wick 10 

114 Some of Our Girls. By Mrs. Eiloart . 20 

115 Diamond Cut Diamond. By T. Adol- 

phus Trollope 10 

116 Moths. By “ Ouida ” 20 

117 A Tale of the Shore and Ocean. By 

W. H. Q. Kingston 20 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford, and Eric Der- 

ing. By “ The Duchess ” 10 

119 Monica and A Rose Distill’d. By 

“ The Duchess ” 10 

120 Tom Brown’s School Days at Rugby. 

By Thomas Hughes 21 

121 Maid of Athens. By Justin McCarthy 20 

122 lone Stewart. By Mrs. E. Lynn Linton 20 

123 Sweet is True Love. “ The Duchess ”. 10 

124 Three Feathers. By William Black. 20 

125 The Monarch of Mincing Lane. By 

William Black 20 

126 Kilmeny. By William Black 20 

127 Adrian Bright. By Mrs. Caddy 20 

128 Afternoon, and Other Sketches. By 

“Ouida” 10 

129 Rossmoyne. By “ The Duchess ” 10 

130 The Last of the Barons. By Sir E. 

BulwerLytton 40 

131 Our Mutual Friend. Charles Dickens 40 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock. By Charles 

Dickens 10 

133 Peter the Whaler. W. H. G. Kingston 10 

134 The Witching Hour. “The Duchess” 10 
1.35 A Great Heiress. By R. E. Francillon 10 

136 “That Last Rehearsal.” By “The 

Duchess” 10 

137 Uncle Jack. By Walter Besant 10 

133 Green Pastures and Piccadilly. By 

William Black 20 

139 The Romantic Adventures of a Milk- 

maid. B.v Thomas Hardy 10 

140 A Glorious Fortune. Walter Besant. , 10 

14T She Loved Him ! By Annie Thomas. 10 
14? Jenifer. By Annie Thomas 20 

143 One False, Both Fair. J. B. Harwood 20 

144 Promises of Marriage. By Gaboriau 10 

145 God and The Man. Robert Buchanan 20 

146 Love Finds the Way. By Walter Be- 

sant and James Rice 10 

147 Rachel Ray. By Anthony Trollope . . 20 

148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. By 

the Author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 

149 The Captain’s Daughter. From the 

Russian of Pushkin 10 

150 For Himself Alone. By T. W. Speight 10 
1.51 The Ducie Diamonds. C. Blatherwick 10 

152 The Uncommercial Traveler. By 

Charles Dickens 20 

153 The Golden Calf. Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

154 Annan Water. By Robert Buchanan. 20 

155 Lady Muriel’s Secret. By Jean Mid- 

dlemass 20 

156 “ For a Dream’s Sake.” By Mrs. Her- 

bert Martin 20 

1.57 Milly’s Hero. By F. W. Robinson — 20 
IK Tha Starling. Norman Macleod, D.D. 10 


[this list is continued 


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159 A Moment of Madness, and Other 

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160 Her Gentle Deeds. By Sarah Tytler. 10 

161 The Lady of Lyons. Founded on the 

Play of that Title by Lord Lytton. 10 

162 Eugene Aram. Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 20 

163 Winifred Power. By JOTce Darrell. . 20 

164 Leila ; or, The Siege of Grenada. By 


Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 10 

165 The History of Henry Esmond. By 

William Makepeace Thackeray .. . 20 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites. By “ The 

Duchess ” 10 

167 Heart and Science. By Wilkie Collins 20 

163 No Thoroughfare. By Charles Dick- 
ens and Mhlkie Collins 10 

169 The Haunted Man. Charles Dickens. 10 

170 A Great Treason. By Mary Hoppus. 30 

171 Fortune’s Wheel, and Other Stories. 

By “ The Duchess ” 10 

172 “ Golden Girls.” By Alan Muir 20 

173 The Foreigners. By Eleanor C. Price 20 

174 Under a Ban. By Mrs. Lodge ^ 

175 Love’s Random Shot, and Other Sto- 

ries. By Wilkie Collins 10 

176 An April Day. By Philippa P. Jeph- 


177 Salem Chapel. By Mrs. Oliphant ... 20 

178 More Leaves from the Journal of a 

Life in the Highlands. By Queen 
Victoria 10 

179 Little Make-Believe. B. L. Farjeon.. 10 

180 Round the Galley Fire. By W. Clark 

Bussell 10 

181 The New Abelard. Robert Buchanan 10 

182 The Millionaire. A Novel 20 

183 Old Contrairy. and Other Stories. By 

Florence Marryat 10 

184 Thirlby Hall. By W. E. Norris. .... . 20 

185 Dita. By Lady Margaret Majendie. . 10 

186 The Canon’s Ward. By James Payn, 20 

187 The Midnight Sun. Fredrika Bremer 10 

188 Idonea. By Anne Beale 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate. By Mrs. Alexander. , 5 

190 Romance of a Black Veil. By the Au- 

thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

191 Harry Lorrequer. By Charles Lever. 15 

192 At the World’s Mercy. By F. Warden 10 

193 The Rosery Folk. By G. Manville 

Fenn 10 

194 “ So Near and Yet So Far !” Alison . . 10 

195 “ 'The Way of the World.” By David 

Christie Murray 15 

196 Hidden Perils. By Mary Cecil Hay . . 10 

197 For Her Dear Sake. Mary Cecil Hay 20 

198 A Husband’s Story lO 

199 The Fisher Village. By Anne Beale.. 10 

200 An Old Man’s Love. Anthony Trollope 10 

201 'The Monastery. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

202 The Abbot. By Sir Walter Scott ^ 

20:3 John Bull and His Island. MaxO’Rell 10 

204 Vixen. By Miss M. E. Braddon 15 

205 The Minister’s Wife. By Mrs. Oliphant 30 

206 The Picture, and Jack of All Trades. 

By Charles Reade 10 

FOURTH PAGE OF COVER.] 


MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


The Seaside Library. 


EIDITIOlSr- 


210 


211 

212 


231 

232 


213 

214 

215 

216 
217 


2:33 

234 

235 


236 

237 


218 

219 


220 

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[continued from third 
Readiana: Comments on Current 2:30 

Events. By Charles Reade 10 

The Octoroon. By Miss M. E. Braddon 10 
Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dragoon. 

By Charles Lever (Complete in one 

volume) 30 

A Terrible Temptation. By Charles 

Reade 15 

Put Yourself in His Place. By Charles 

Reade 20 

Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa Nou- 

chette Carey 15 

Foul Pl^'. By Charles Reade and 

Dion Boucicault 15 

The Man She Cared For. By F. W. 

Robinson 15 

Agnes Sorel. By 6. P. R. James 15 

Lady Clare; or, The Master of the 

Forces. By (3eorges Ohnet 10 

Which Loved Him Best? By Bertha 
M. Clay, author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 
Coinin’ Thro’ the Rye. By Helen B. 

Mathers 15 

The Sun-Maid. By Miss Grant 15 

A Sailor’s Sweetheart. By W. Clark 

Russell 1,5 

The Arundel Motto. Mary Cecil Hay 15 

The Giant’s Robe. By F. Anstey 15 

Friendship. By “ Ouida ” 20 

Nancy. By Rhoda Broughton 15 

Princess Napraxine. By“Ouida”.. 20 
Maid, Wife, or Widow? By Mrs. 
Alexander 10 


2:38 

239 

240 

241 


242 

243 


213 

244 


215 

246 


247 

248 


PAGE OF COVER.] 

Dorothy Forster. By Walter Besanl. 15 
Griffith Gaunt. By Charles Reade . . 15 
Love and Money ; or, A Perilous Se- 
cret. By Charles Reade 10 

“ I Say No;” or, the Love-Letter An- 
swered. Wilkie Collins 15 

Barbara; or. Splendid Misery. Miss 

M. E. Braddon 15 

“It is Never Too Late to Mend.” 

A Matter-Of-Fact Romance. By 

Charles Reade 20 

Which Shall It Be? By Mrs. Alex- 
ander 20 

Repented at Leisure. By Bertha M. 
Clay, Author of “ Dora Thorne ”. . 15 

Pascarel. By “Ouida” 20 

Signa. By “Ouida” 20 

Called Back. By Hugh Conway 10 

The Baby’s Grandmother. By L. B. 

Walford ' 10 

The Two Orphans. By D’Ennery 10 

Tom Burke of “Ours.” First half. 

By Charles Lever 20 

Tom Burke of “ Ours.” Second half. 

By Charles Lever 20 

A (jreat Mistake. By the author of 

“His Wedded Wife” 20 

Miss Tommy. By Miss Mulock 10 

A Fatal Dower. By the author of 

“ His Wedded Wife ” 10 

The Armourer’s Prentices. By Char- 
lotte M. Yonge 10 

The House on the Marsh. F. Warden 10 


LATEST ISSUES: 


By “ The Duch- 


14 Airy Fairy Lillian. 

ess” 10 

17 The Wooing O't. By Mrs. Alexander. 15 
19 Her Mother’s Sin. By Bertha M. 

Clay, Author of “ Dora Thorne ” . . 10 
29 Beauty’s Daughters. By “The Duch- 

©ss 10 

33 The Clique of Gold. By Emiie Gabo- 

riau 10 

41 Oliver Twist. By Charles Dickens. . . 15 
52 The New Magdalen. By W’^ilkie Col- 
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70 AVhite Wings: A Yachting Romance. 

By William Black 10 

77 A Tale of Two Cities. By Charles 
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91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles Dickens 

92 Lord Lynne's Choice; or. True Love 

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98 A Woman-Hater. By Charles Reade. 

102 The Moonstone. By Wilkie Collins. . 

148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. By 
the Author of “ Dora Thorne ”. . 

181 The New Abelard. Robert Buchanan 

190 Romance of a Black Veil. By the Au- 

thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

191 Harry Lorrequer. By Charles Lever. 15 
207 Pretty Miss Neville. By B. N. Croker 15 
209 John Holdswortli, Chief Mate. By 

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